Page 58 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She measured and weighed, and muttered as she did. “Two drops of the hawthorn oil should be enough. Just a hint of betony. And a dash of poppy juice to balance it all out.”
He sat and listened to her voice, to its cadence and tone. Regardless of the actual words, her monologue fell on his ears like a soothing litany.
And he realized how comfortable he was, there in what was essentially her domain. He’d never really been inside the still room before; as a child, he’d been sent to the door to ask for an ointment for this or that, but he hadn’t dared set foot inside.
Now he sat and breathed deeply, and let the peace of the place—and a strange sense of security and belonging—seep into his bones.
Eventually, Lucilla gave the greeny-yellow concoction she’d mixed in a beaker a final stir, then poured the liquid into a waiting bottle and stoppered it. Setting the bottle aside, she quickly cleared away the various elixirs she’d used, then she glanced around to make sure all was tidy, turned down the still-room lamps, picked up the bottle, and turned to him.
He rose from the stool and lifted the lamp he’d brought with them from the counter. His gaze fixing on the bottle, he murmured, “Let’s pray he takes it.” So much rode on Manachan’s strength returning.
“He will.” Lucilla led the way into the corridor. She waited while he closed the door and locked it, then handed her the key. Accepting it, she smiled. “Your curmudgeon of an uncle will never back away from a challenge, and although it’s me he challenged, not obeying my instructions will mean he backed away, so he won’t do that.” As they walked toward the steps to the ground floor, she added, “Besides, hewantsto get better—everything I saw and heard screams that.”
Starting up the steps beside her, Thomas nodded. “He’s still the laird, and now that he knows his people need him, he’ll do everything he can not to let them down.”
They walked into the front hall and made for the main stairs. They climbed, the light from the lamp swinging from his hand creating shifting shadows on the dark paneling.
As they reached the landing, Lucilla murmured, “I’ve heard Manachan called many unflattering names over the years, but I’ve never heard anyone ever suggest that he hasn’t, always, acted in the best interests of your clan.”
Thomas inclined his head. They reached Manachan’s door and he tapped on the panel.
Edgar appeared and Lucilla handed over the stoppered bottle. “He has to drink the entire dose, every last drop, and then he can sleep. Send for me when he’s ready to see me in the morning.”
Edgar had been examining the bottle. He looked at Lucilla and bowed. “Thank you, miss. I’ll make sure he drinks it all.”
With a nod to Thomas, Edgar shut the door.
Lucilla turned and, with Thomas pacing beside her and the lamp in his hand lighting their way, walked around the gallery toward the visitors’ wing and their respective rooms. A sense of anticipation, of pending satisfaction, coursed through her; she was keen to see how much of an improvement her tonic wrought in Manachan by the morning. She had every expectation that the improvement would be significant, and that would rank as a true accomplishment, one she had every intention of building on with the subsequent restorative. On that front, she was eminently pleased with her progress.
But as for progress on the Thomas front, while she hadn’t lost ground, neither had she gained enough to feel secure. She had a long way yet to go before she convinced him that his path was entwined with hers—that his future was already defined, and that it lay in the Vale with her.
They walked under the ornately carved archway and into the corridor that ran down the center of the visitors’ wing. Despite having stood for several centuries, Carrick Manor was a much younger structure than her home in the Vale. Casphairn Manor was built around the keep of a very old castle, and over the centuries had grown and spread out on all sides; the resulting shape was roughly circular, with the old Great Hall still very much the center of the place, its structural and emotional lynchpin.
Here, there were two separate wings attached to opposite sides of the main wing, which was essentially the original block-shaped manor. Instead of the stone walls of her home, here the walls were plastered and paneled with dark-stained wood. Ceilings were coffered with the same wood, and relatively low compared to those she was accustomed to.
This house had a very different feel. Despite the predominance of pale gray stone, her home was filled with light and warmth, with energy and laughter and the heartbeats and footsteps of many people; it was very much alive. In contrast, Carrick Manor, although inhabited, struck her as sleeping, as somehow dormant, in a form of stasis.
The knowledge swept over her and she suppressed a shiver. Whether it had started with Manachan’s illness, or perhaps long before when his wife had died, she didn’t know, but the house had drawn back, drawn in, shut down, and was now waiting…although for what, she couldn’t say. But unless something happened to breathe life into it again, this house would ultimately die.
Pulling her mind from the thought—she might not know what would bring this house alive again, but she did know it wasn’t anything to do with Thomas or herself—she refocused on the long corridor down which they were walking. She still hadn’t decided how to advance her cause with Thomas, what her next step should be, yet the doors to the rooms they’d been given lay just ahead, opposite each other toward the end of the wing. That fact alone spoke volumes regarding the lack of proper direction in the household. Unmarried male and female visitors should have been accommodated in separate areas of the house, and despite the disused wing being disused, it was there…
Halting outside the door to her room, she looked at Thomas. “I just remembered—I found Faith Burns’s candle. It was what caused me to trip in that corridor.” Briefly, she described what she’d found, and where the candle and candleholder had lain.
Even in the poor light, she saw the change in Thomas’s expression. Knew that he, too, was struggling to make sense of Faith somehow tripping down the stairs, but the candle landing that far back along the corridor.
She sighed and met his eyes. “I know coincidence is being stretched thin, but…there’s one reasonable possibility that might account for the Burns sisters’ deaths.” He frowned, and she went on, “What if Faith and Joy ate something while they were together and chatting in the kitchen—something poisonous? If Faith ate more of it than Joy, it would have started affecting her first. She could well have become disoriented, taken the wrong turning in the gallery and ended in the disused wing, dropped the candle, then lurched along the corridor, and stumbled and fallen down the stairs. Joy didn’t eat as much, so she reached the Bradshaws’ farm, spoke with the Forresters, and started work there—but then the poison took hold, and she died, too.”
He studied her eyes, thinking, assessing. “Wouldn’t you have known if Faith had died from poison, too?”
She considered, then shook her head. “I doubt it, because Faith died of a broken neck, not the poison, and her body lay for so long, by the time I saw it, there was no visible trace of poison. But I doubt there would have been any to find, not unless her body had been discovered immediately and someone had known what to look for.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then softly said, “That still leaves us with the question of whether it was poison by intent, or by accident.”
“Given we have no evidence of any kind that anyone wanted the sisters murdered, it’s hard to argue intent. And as I understand it, anyone in the clan has access to this house, day and night, so even if we harbor suspicions that the deaths weren’t accidental, proving who the murderer was will be well-nigh impossible.”
He held her gaze. “You’ve been thinking of this as much as I have.”
She raised her chin. “I live in the area. I’m presently sharing the running of the Vale with Marcus. I’m equally responsible, and part of that responsibility is bringing any potential crime to the attention of the magistrate.” She paused, then went on, “I have to weigh everything and decide what path is the correct one for the people here. While you and I might speculate and imagine how murder was done, we can prove nothing, not even that itwasmurder, and we have absolutely no notion of who might be responsible for such a crime.”
