Borrowed Vows (8 page)

She felt uncomfortable. First there was all that “been here before” business yesterday, then the dream, followed by finding out someone had been in the apartment while she slept. Now this. Just what was going on here? Talk about dreaming an old movie plot, she was beginning to feel she was still in one. A Hitchcock movie!

For a moment or so she hesitated about going out, but then decided what the heck. Maybe Jack the Janitor went sleepwalking and liked to try on women’s things! And maybe she’d been a little tidier than she remembered; after all, she had been very tired last night, so tired she didn’t even recall reading about Marchwood Castle. She couldn’t explain away Richard’s message, though.

More than a little rattled, she deliberated about what to do. She still didn’t see the point of informing the police, they’d be certain to think she was imagining things, and there wasn’t much point calling Richard now. It was the middle of the night in Chicago, and when he was away from home he always told hotels not to put calls through to him unless they were urgent. She couldn’t exactly pretend this was urgent, so she’d wait until later before calling. Besides, she wasn’t in the mood to dwell on all this now. She wanted to go see that darned castle.

Armed with the road atlas she’d bought at Heathrow, she drove south out of Gloucester. It was the same route she’d taken in her dream, but that could be explained because when she’d fallen asleep she’d already seen the map on the back of the Marchwood leaflet.

It felt good driving out of the city on such a beautiful summer morning, while all the rush hour traffic poured in. Rush hour traffic? Compared to New York this was about as busy as a Kansas back road! Still, she didn’t doubt the people of Gloucester thought it just as much the pits as anything Manhattan had to offer on a bad day.

Soon she was in open countryside, but it wasn’t long before she saw the sign for Marchwood, and left the main highway to follow the minor road to the village. As the first houses swept into view ahead she braked to stare at the castle, because the
déjà vu
she’d felt on first seeing Gloucester was as nothing to the feeling she had now. Maybe the scene had been moonlit in her dream, but everything was exactly as she remembered. Marchwood hadn’t changed much over the centuries; the castle still loomed above the trees, and the village nestled in its protective lee.

Suddenly she felt stupid. Of course it all seemed familiar, it was one of the views on the leaflet! One thing was different from her dream, though, and that was the large parking lot provided for visitors. Last night she and Dane had driven through the village and then over the old drawbridge, but these days the village was spared the endless flood of visitors. Now cars were left on this new lot, and a gravel path led between the trees toward the side of the castle rather than the front.

She drove on. There were few visitors so early in the morning, and since her rented car had no air-conditioning, she chose a shady place beneath a wide-spreading tree and then walked a little nervously toward the small hut where entry tickets were sold.

Her appearance at the window startled the plump woman seated inside with her knitting. “Good heavens, you’re bright and early.”

“Yes, I guess I am,” Kathryn replied.

“American?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ve put on some grand weather today. You’ll be able to go back and tell all your friends it’s not true it rains here all the time,” the woman said with a smile as she took Kathryn’s coins and dispensed a ticket. “Just follow the path; everything’s sign-posted.”

“Thank you.”

Gravel crunched beneath Kathryn’s feet as she walked through the trees to the castle. Marchwood parish church stood behind an ivy-clad wall to her right, and to her left was part of the old moat, grass-filled and barely discernible. She passed the castle stables and coach houses, now converted into a gift shop and restaurant, and then she emerged onto a wide area where the original approach road passed beneath the immense gatehouse into the castle.

This was where the Waterloo cannon were on display, and at the far side she could see ornamental steps leading down to the terraced gardens. Beyond the garden were the marshy meadows where the little River March, a tributary of the much larger Severn, wound its way across the estate, and then vanished into more woodland toward the estuary. It was from somewhere on those meadows that the view of the castle had been taken for the leaflet.

But it was at the drawbridge and ancient gateway she stared now, remembering how the wheels of Dane’s carriage had rumbled on the wood before sweeping into the great inner courtyard. A cool finger ran slowly down her spine. This was exactly as she remembered it from the night before, and it wasn’t a scene depicted on the leaflet. So how could she have possibly seen it so clearly in her dream?

Chapter Nine

Kathryn felt quite rattled. All this was beginning to get just a little too creepy for comfort, and far from wanting to go on into the castle, she suddenly wanted to cut and run. No, that wouldn’t do, for if she high-tailed it at this juncture she’d never forgive herself for being such a wimp. All she needed was a few minutes to sit and think.

She glanced toward the restaurant in the old stables, and quickly retraced her steps toward it. It was old-fashioned inside, with a self-serve counter, and tables and chairs that didn’t match. It smelled of coffee and confectionery, and the radio played bland music. The coffee looked undrinkable, so she got the tea, which didn’t look much better, but before sitting down she noticed an elderly woman seated at a corner table. Dressed in a neat brown suit and white frilled blouse, she was studying a newspaper crossword. The badge on her lapel announced her to be one of the castle guides.

After a moment’s hesitation, Kathryn approached her. “Excuse me, may I have a word with you?”

The woman looked up. “Why, yes, of course.”

“I see you’re one of the guides, and wondered if I might ask you a few things?”

“About the castle? Feel free to ask anything you wish.” With a charming smile, the woman indicated one of the chairs at the table.

Kathryn sat down and then toyed nervously with her cup and saucer.

The woman looked inquiringly at her. “What is it you wish to know?”

“It concern’s the castle’s history.”

“Ah. Your ancestors came from these parts?”

“No. Well, my husband’s family came from Gloucester, but that’s not relevant. I’m actually interested in the Marchwood family at the time of Waterloo, or thereabouts.”

“Waterloo. Now let me see, that would be Sir Philip’s time—no, I tell a lie, it was his father Sir Dane’s time! Yes, of course, what am I thinking. Sir Dane fought at Waterloo itself; he captured the cannon and brought them back here.”

Kathryn’s pulse quickened, and her mouth was suddenly dry. There really had been a Sir Dane at the time of Waterloo? The leaflet didn’t mention that! She cleared her throat. “I, er ... Dane is an unusual name, does it run in the Marchwood family?” she asked.

“Not really. There was another one in the fourteenth century, but that’s all as far as I know. Maybe some minor members of the family were called it, but I wouldn’t really know about that. As far as Marchwood castle is concerned, there were only two.”

Kathryn didn’t know what to say next.

The guide sipped her coffee. “The Waterloo Sir Dane was a very dashing and dangerous fellow, much given to pistols at dawn. He fought four duels and won them all, killing his opponent on each occasion.”

Kathryn began to feel sick inside. Four duels? In her dream there had only been three.

The guide went on. “But the last one left a stain on his reputation. He always used his own set of dueling pistols, and on this occasion was alleged to have tampered with the one his opponent used in order to ensure victory, and since this adversary was the younger brother of one of his previous victims, you can imagine how shocked local society was by his apparent lack of honor.”

Kathryn was numb. The fourth opponent had been the brother of one of the previous ones? Who else could it be but Thomas Denham? But the leaflet hadn’t mentioned Thomas Denham, so how could she explain his appearance in her dream? Come to that, how could she explain knowing about the three original duels?

The woman didn’t notice her stunned reaction. “Still, it was probably no more than Sir Dane deserved, for he played the devil once too often. Getting away with three duels was amazing, but to emerge victorious from a fourth was tantamount to a miracle. There had to be a penalty, albeit a relatively minor inconvenience to someone like him. Although, on reflection, I suppose having one’s honor called into question was probably a serious business in those days.” The woman drew a long breath. “Devil or not, he was very handsome. From his portrait, I’d say he’d give any present-day heartthrob a run for his money. The original tall, dark, and handsome, that was Sir Dane.”

Kathryn had to ask about the last duel. “Who was his final opponent?” she asked, knowing in her heart what the answer would be.

“A gentleman by the name of Thomas Denham, of Denham Hall, just to the north of Gloucester. The duel was on Lammas Day, 1815. That’s August the first,” the guide added in explanation. “The whole business was most unfortunate, for Thomas’s elder brother William had fallen foul of Sir Dane ten years previously. There was talk of a vendetta, or whatever word would have been used at that time. The Denhams were once an important local family, but have died out now, and the hall was pulled down about fifteen years ago to make way for a new road. Anyway, I’m wandering from the point. The story goes that Sir Dane accused Thomas of a liaison with his wife, Rosalind.”

Shocked to the core now, Kathryn stared at her. There had been a Rosalind too? All the people she’d dreamed about last night had actually lived? She struggled to keep a grip on herself. It could still be because she’d read a book or seen a movie. She gave the woman a weak smile. “Tell me, has the story ever been turned into a novel? Or a movie?”

The guide laughed. “Oh, dear me, no; we’re small fry here at Marchwood. The history of the castle has been written, of course, but that’s all. Sir Dane’s tale would make an excellent book, though, and if it were filmed, he would make a marvelously handsome hero.” She sat back thoughtfully. “Actually, I suppose Rosalind would be the perfect heroine as well, for she was said to have been very beautiful. According to the records she had golden hair and green eyes, but the only portrait of her was destroyed in a fire about fifty years ago. She’s a rather enigmatic figure, and must have been perverse, for how could any woman prefer the rather dull Mr. Denham to such a tempestuous and infinitely more exciting husband like Sir Dane? I really don’t understand. Anyway, Sir Dane was succeeded by Sir Philip, his son by his first wife, Elizabeth. The Marchwood line eventually came to an end in 1990, and the castle has been the property of the nation ever since.”

Kathryn didn’t know what to think now. All her fancy theories about leaflets, books, and movies didn’t hold water anymore, which meant she had to think of some other way to explain what happened in her sleep last night. She still felt okay, so it wasn’t a fever or anything like that, nor was she on any medication that might produce such a vivid dream, and surely jet lag couldn’t be the culprit. So what else was there? Her lips parted as something new struck her. Reincarnation? Was that it? Was she the re-embodiment of Rosalind, Lady Marchwood? No, she couldn’t be, she didn’t even believe in such things!

“Are you all right, my dear?” the guide asked concernedly.

“Mm?”

“You look a little pale. I was wondering if you felt unwell.”

“Er, no. Forgive me.”

“Well, there isn’t a great deal more I can tell you about Sir Dane. Is there anything else you wish to know about the family at that time?”

Kathryn felt she already had more than enough to chew on. She gave a quick smile. “Not really, except...”

“Yes?”

“You mentioned a portrait of Sir Dane?”

“Yes. Actually, you must have passed it while you went around the castle. It’s on the staircase in the great hall. You can’t miss it.”

Kathryn thought back to the previous night. The space on the half-landing had been cleared for a new portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence. “Er, no, I haven’t actually been on the tour yet.”

“You haven’t? Oh, I thought you must have done. People usually come in here for refreshment after their dose of history.” The woman smiled.

“I... I wanted a cup of tea,” Kathryn explained lamely.

“Well, the dismal beverage they serve in here isn’t exactly Fortnum and Mason. You’d have been better off sticking to coffee.”

Kathryn managed a smile. “Perhaps I’ll leave it then.” She got up. “I think I’ll go on my tour now.”

“You do that, my dear, and remember to take note of Sir Dane’s portrait. I’m sure you’ll agree that whatever was said of him, he was a wickedly handsome fellow.”

“I will. Thank you for your time.”

“Not at all.”

Kathryn went out into the sunshine again, and this time her steps were more determined. Somewhere there was a rational explanation for what happened last night, and she meant to find out what it was. As she passed beneath the gatehouse into the wide courtyard, the castle seemed to fold over her just like it had the night before. The first tour of the day was beginning to form, and she tagged along as a male guide conducted them inside.

The great hall was just the same, even to the repairs being done to one of the fireplaces. Kathryn paused. Repairs? In her dream, or whatever it was, similar repairs were in progress to the same fireplace. Then the stonemason’s old-fashioned implements had been neatly piled against the wall, but now much more modern equipment was scattered around, and the area had been roped off for safety. There was an electric saw and drill, as well as various other stone-cutting tools, and the fireplace had been almost entirely dismantled.

The male guide observed her interest. “Ah, yes, madam, the fireplace is rather a sorry sight at the moment. I fear that the last time it was repaired, the mortar wasn’t quite what it should have been. Anyway, when it’s done this time, it will stand for centuries more.”