The Beckoning Ghost, page 16
“I came in to see if you wanted another cup of tea, and found you lying on the sofa, “ the older woman said. “You didn't wake up when I first called your name, so I was worried. “ She put her hand to Marissa's forehead. “You do feel a trifle warm, my dear. Should I call my doctor?”
“No... no need for that. “ This time, Marissa managed to sit up. Her brain scrambled for a reasonable story for passing out on her hostess's couch. “I—ah, I had a virus a short while back. I guess I'm still not over it completely, because it makes me dizzy sometimes. I must have fainted. “
She ran her hands over her face to brush the last of the cobwebs away. “Don't worry, Mrs. Copeland. I'll be fine. “
As she dropped her hands into her lap, she noticed that the ring was gone. Then she remembered the photograph. If Mrs. Copeland saw it...
Her eyes searched out the chest. It was closed, all the items put back inside of it. Had Brendan done that as well?
Mrs. Copeland leaned over and patted her hand. “I don't think you should go to a hotel, and I have a small guest house out back. Please say that you'll stay the night. “
At a loss to come up with an excuse, Marissa smiled weakly. “Thank you. I'd be delighted to stay. “
Beatrice got up from the arm of the couch and went to the door. “Did anything in the chest interest you?”
Marissa's voice caught. “Yes, “ she squeaked, then cleared the obstacle in her throat. “I found it all... fascinating. Tomorrow I'll make an inventory for you, and we can go over it together. “
Mrs. Copeland gave her a warm smile. “Lovely. “
Beatrice insisted that they have dinner together, so Marissa couldn't escape to the privacy of the guest cottage until twilight. Opening the French door, she saw the chest had been moved to the cottage's living room. She gave it a wide berth as she crossed the room to the rear balcony, which overlooked the small beach below the house.
Marissa stood on the balcony and let the pounding rhythm of the surf soothe her agitated soul. As the last of the light faded, the evening sky and indigo sea blurred at the horizon.
Ever since she'd awakened from her faint, she'd tried to push her connection to Miranda Seton out of her mind. With her New Age wisdom, Kelsey would say that Marissa must be the reincarnation of the dead woman. On a deep, emotional level, Marissa felt the same thing.
So much of what had happened to her in the past month would be explained. The feelings of deja vu, the curious dreams and visions she'd experienced—it all fit with the reincarnation theory. Yet on a more rational level, she found it hard to accept.
Marissa laughed, a laughter slightly hysterical in tone. She had trouble believing in her own reincarnation, but living her life around a ghost was perfectly normal, right?
Sensing she wasn't alone any longer, she stared out across the rolling surf as Brendan came out onto the balcony.
He said gently, “Marissa... “
“Don't you mean 'Randie?'“ She wrapped her arms around her waist to keep her rocketing anger from exploding. “So... what other nasty little surprises do you have in store for me?”
Marissa felt him stiffen beside her.
His tone rife with tension, he answered, “I'd hardly call being the reincarnation of the finest woman I ever knew a 'nasty surprise. ' “
“Why didn't you just tell me?” She turned to glare at him. “Instead, you encouraged me to look through that damnable chest until it leapt out at me like a horrible, grinning jack-in-the-box. “
In frustration, he ran his fingers back through his tumbled hair. “You wouldn't have believed me if I simply told you. You had to feel it for yourself. “ His tone aggrieved, he added, “You and your friend Owen are the ones responsible for the discovery of the chest. On the other hand, I—how would you say it—I merely came along for the ride. “
Marissa angrily tossed her hair. “Hah! You were sitting there in the library like some huge, hairy spider, waiting patiently—no, impatiently—for your hapless victim to blunder into your web!”
He opened his mouth for a sharp retort, then looked at her blankly. “What?”
Locked into cruise control, Marissa wouldn't let a measly thing like logic stop her now. No way.
“Don't you see? I don't want to be your darling little Randie. I am Marissa Christine Erickson, of the late twentieth century. I have a full, exciting life ahead of me. That—that woman in there had nothing but tragedy in her life. I don't want that—
I can't stand all that pain—”
“Marissa, please... I don't want to hurt you. “ He reached out for her, but she flinched away.
“No, don't touch me. From the moment I saw you, you've been slowly driving me crazy. Ghosts, reincarnation... next it will be UFO's and seeing Elvis. Why don't you just leave me alone?”
Brendan pulled in his outstretched hands and tucked them in the pockets of his trousers. “You're distraught. I'll come back later. “ He turned to go.
“Why?” she called after him. “So you can ruin my life the way you did Miranda's?”
From the reflexive jerk of his shoulders, she knew her barb had struck deeply. Strangely, it gave her no pleasure. In wounded silence, he walked into the shadows and disappeared.
Left alone in her misery, Marissa sagged against the railing. God, what had she done?
Chapter Twelve
The phantom, Beauty, in a mist of tears.
—William Butler Yeats
July 1875
With a metallic screech and the hiss of steam, the morning train pulled into the St. Paul and Pacific depot at Wayzata, Minnesota. It disgorged its passengers onto the platform: hamper-laden picnickers, avid fishermen carrying poles and tackle, weekend sailors, and a multitude of summer vacationers.
The crowd broke up. Some went to the hotels on Lake Street, a pair of shimmering white summer palaces. Others headed down the hill to the harbor, where a collection of boats lay at dock. The fleet consisted of mostly sailing vessels, but a few larger steamboats waited to ferry passengers to various points on scenic Lake Minnetonka.
On her way down to the dock, a newsboy handed Miranda a small newspaper extolling the natural beauty and civilized amenities available to the summer visitor. Its proud headline announced, “Welcome to the Saratoga of the West. “
At that rather grandiose claim, Miranda smiled. Still, on the knoll below the station, the lake spread out before her, pristine blue and sparkling in the clear northern light. Fueled by a booming trade, the clamor and bustle of new building surrounded her, proving the popularity of the new summer mecca.
She stopped a porter on his way down the hill. “What boat do we take to reach the Arcadia House?”
“You'd want the May Queen, miss. She's berthed at the dock directly below here. “
Miranda thanked him, and looked up to see Brendan and Rosalind heading down the ramp. Behind them, Biju and a porter carted their luggage.
The Indian's unusual garb and fearsome appearance made him an object of attention. Beneath his white turban, Biju scowled at a nosy blond-haired boy, who dared to stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Closing his mouth with a click of teeth, the youngster scampered away. A thin smile creased the Indian's lips. As he saw Miranda watching him, his face became blank, and he gave her the slightest of shrugs.
After years of traveling together, Miranda found Biju to be a troublesome enigma. Despite her Indian upbringing, no matter how she tried to get on with him, he treated her with an almost distasteful reserve. To Brendan, he showed the utmost respect, to Rosalind, devotion. But his behavior toward Miranda always bordered on the edge of insolence. Miranda never understood what she'd done to earn his enmity, so she found herself trying to avoid him whenever possible.
Once they were all aboard the neat little steamer and under way, Miranda made her way to the bow of the ship. She stood at the forward rail, letting the summer wind blow her curls into riotous disorder. After days of being cramped in the train from Denver, the clean wind felt good on her face.
On the way to the port of Excelsior, they passed a few homes with lush, shady lawns, but most of the land was dense forest, broken by a patch of meadow here and there. With all its islands, nooks and sheltered coves, the lake seemed three times larger than its length of seventeen miles.
She smiled. Perhaps the enthusiasm of the local press had justification. An enchanting, water-blessed playground, Lake Minnetonka beckoned to her. She found it a verdant oasis after the dusty, blistering heat of the Plains.
Miranda felt a light touch as a broad hand came to rest at her waist. Brendan stood beside her, dressed comfortably in his light-weight traveling jacket and cotton trousers. His low-brimmed slouch hat shaded the upper half of his face, but when he smiled, she could see his white teeth framed by his black mustache. When they stood close like this, alone with the wind and the water, she could almost forget that he belonged to another.
“Beautiful country, isn't it, Randie? Lush green woods and rippling, sky-blue water. I think Rosalind will find the setting tranquil and relaxing. “ The fingers of his free hand drummed on the wooden railing. “I have the name of a doctor here who has experience with nervous conditions like my wife's. “
Miranda turned back to the water. “The winter we spent alone in Denver was hard on her, Brendan. She missed you, and Denver itself is a rough, boisterous place. “ She paused. “I think this the perfect place to spend a quiet, restful summer. You'll have time to finish your book on Polynesia. “
“What about you, Randie-bai?” He glanced at her fondly. “How do you want to spend your summer?”
Her jonquil-yellow skirts billowed in the brisk wind and wrapped around Brendan's legs. With a practiced hand, Miranda gathered them in again. “I have to organize the notes you took over the winter with the Cheyenne. I also have one or two articles to write for the Boston Gazette.
Brendan's brows lowered. “I wish you'd let me speak to my publisher about putting your travel articles in book form. I think you should Start writing under your own name, instead of Mallory Summers. “
“We've discussed this before, “ she answered. “For the colorful type of articles that I write, readers would be shocked to see a woman's byline. It's just not done. “ She smiled up at him then. “I know: 'Damn convention. '
“It's much easier for you, Brendan, than it would be for me. Even you have suffered at the hands of a poisoned pen or two. “ She frowned on his behalf, remembering the vitriol in some of the lesser publications.
Brendan tightened his hand on her waist. “Let's forget about all that rubbish and simply enjoy ourselves. By the time we leave here, I want to see blooming roses in both my girls' cheeks!”
Arcadia Island seemed a cool, green paradise. Beyond the long white facade of Arcadia House, a few bungalows lay scattered beneath the towering maples. The Tyrells had rented the most spacious bungalow, an open, airy dwelling with three bedrooms and a large front porch that overlooked the lake. Furnished with new walnut tables, beds and dressers, the bungalow welcomed them with fresh rustic charm.
The occupants each fell into their own daily routines. Brendan worked at his desk or went sailing. Miranda spent half of the day writing; the other half she went for a swim or walk in the woods. Rosalind read or did her needlepoint; sometimes she took the May Queen over to Wayzata to see Dr. Heffel, or went shopping in Excelsior. Whatever Rosalind did, Biju followed in devoted attendance.
On a bright July afternoon, Rosalind came home from her appointment with Dr. Heffel to find the bungalow empty. Excited to share her news, she looked for Brendan. The doctor had given her a new medicine for her nerves, one to replace the blue bottle of laudanum, which he'd said was bad for her.
She looked down at the dock. No one was there, but the rowboat was gone. With uncharacteristic energy, she decided to walk along the island's shore to see if she could find Brendan. Leaving Biju behind at the bungalow, she followed the narrow trail that skirted the island's edge. Her confining silk skirts and thin shoes bothered her, but she pressed on anyway.
On the far side of the island, she stopped to rest at a rough-hewn bench placed in a small grassy glade near the water's edge. From the water, she heard the sound of mingled voices and laughter. Rising from her seat, she peeked through the bushes.
Just a little way offshore, Brendan rowed the skiff, the sun shining on his glossy black hair. Rosalind frowned slightly when she saw Miranda seated opposite him in the boat. The younger woman looked cool and dainty in her ice-blue cotton. On her shoulder, she rested a furled parasol trimmed with eyelet lace.
Rosalind wiped her handkerchief down her sweaty neck, loosening the collar of her beige silk. Her own skirts were streaked with leaves and dirt from her trek through the woods. Hot, dirty and tired, she felt a sudden spurt of anger because Miranda sat in her place in the boat, gliding serenely across the water.
A reed bed lay between the island and the mainland. Brendan rowed the boat into the channel by the reeds. Then he shipped the oars and they just drifted, coming close to Rosalind's hiding place. The skiff turned in the water, so she could see Miranda clearly, but only Brendan's profile.
“Why did you drag that parasol along if you don't intend to use it?” he scolded Miranda. “You'll get freckles on that prized white skin of yours.”
In response, she made a flourish with the furled umbrella and stabbed him lightly in the chest. “I like the sun—it reminds me of India.”
“Fine, “ he said, “turn into a wrinkled old crone then.“
Miranda made a vulgar face at him, then opened the parasol, shading her fair face from the afternoon sun. She sighed blissfully. “What a halcyon day. “
“Look. “ He pointed to the reed bed where two stately birds, one white and one silver-gray, prowled the shallows on long thin legs, their vigilant eyes searching the water. “An egret and a great blue heron. “
To see them, Miranda dropped the parasol over her shoulder. The flash of white startled the birds, and they rose up into the sky with a harsh squawk.
“Clumsy wench, “ Brendan muttered affectionately as he watched the birds take to the air with deep, slow wing beats.
As Miranda glanced away from the birds' flight, her gaze came to rest on Brendan's face. Her expression changed from relaxed amusement to painful longing, and her love for Brendan lit her emerald eyes like a shining beacon.
A rush of outraged betrayal closed Rosalind's throat. When Miranda first came to them in Ischia, Rosalind had distrusted her. Since then, she'd kept a watchful eye on the girl, but Miranda had never done anything overt to arouse suspicion. Now Rosalind stood frozen in place, watching with horror as the girl she'd welcomed into her home made sheep's eyes at her husband.
But as Brendan turned back to face Miranda, the girl's expression changed dramatically. When he finally glanced at her again, she'd composed her wretched, pretty face into a look of companionable affection.
So, Rosalind thought cannily, Miranda has enough sense to hide her true feelings from Brendan. And rightly so, for Brendan would send her away if he knew of the girl's forbidden love.
Stung by Miranda's betrayal, Rosalind devised a series of mental tortures for her so-called friend and companion, the would-be Jezebel.
Brendan stood on the front porch of the bungalow, the bowl of his pipe glowing in the twilight. Easing the stiff collar of his white shirt away from his neck, he pondered his submission to the discomforts of evening dress. Rosalind wanted to take this moonlight cruise on the lake. If the evening would lift her spirits, he'd do anything to accommodate her wishes.
A small cough behind him alerted Brendan to Biju's presence. “Yes, Biju, what is it?”
The Indian made a sketchy bow, or namskan. “Sa'b, the Memsa'b wishes me to tell you that to the dancing on the boat, she will not be going. “
“What?” Brendan tapped out the embers in his pipe and left it on the porch. He strode back to their bedroom. Still in her dressing gown, Rosalind reclined in the room's chaise, her soft white arm drooped across her eyes.
Brendan smothered his impatience and spoke to his wife gently. “Ros, you're not dressed. Biju said that you didn't want to go on the cruise. I can't believe you'd change your mind; I know how much you were looking forward to this. “
With a heavy sigh, Rosalind lowered her arm to reveal sherry-colored eyes marred by shadows. “I'm sorry, Brendan. This headache is enough to lay me low for the evening. You go on without me. I'm sure Miranda will be disappointed if you don't go; she seldom gets a chance to be with young men her own age. “
“I'm sure Randie will understand—”
“No, Brendan, “ she said, a sulky edge to her voice. “If you stay home with me, my headache will only get worse. I just want to sleep. Take Miranda on the cruise... she deserves it. “
“Very well, “ he said. “Don't overexcite yourself. You know what the doctor told you. “
“I'll be fine. Go. “ She draped her arm over her eyes again.
Thus dismissed, Brendan went out to the living room. Miranda waited for him there, a tall, slender vision swathed in silver satin and lace.
“Rosalind?” Her smooth brows lifted anxiously.
“My wife has a headache, “ he said flatly. “She said to go without her. “
“But the cruise was her idea. “
“I know. “ He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. “I didn't think it wise to force the issue. “
Miranda moved toward the bedrooms. “Perhaps if I spoke to her... “
Brendan caught her bare arm. “I don't think so; she was adamant... in one of her strange moods again. “ He sighed. “We'll go, just the two of us. “
He picked up her matching lace shawl and draped it over her shoulders. With a half-smile, he said, “Come along, Randie. You look far too beautiful to spend the evening at home with only a doddering old gent to keep you company. “
The full moon hung overhead, so close it seemed that you could reach up and touch it. The light it cast shone on the tranquil waters of the lake, and the pleasure barge Nokomis drifted across a sheet of shimmering silver.
