House of Dreams (21 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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He genuflected. “Dearest Isabel,” he said gravely. “I am so sorry, but
your mother walks with the Lord now, and know you that she is at peace.”
Isabel found it difficult to breathe. Her mother, dead? And she had not even been able to say good-bye? “No,” she whispered, her heart starting to shred and hurt so painfully she had to clasp her palm to her unformed breast. “No.” She felt herself begin to tremble violently.
The priest smiled sadly at her. “She was a devout and good woman, and rest assured that she finds Heaven a wondrous place. She is with the Lord now, Isabel. Where she must finally be.”
Isabel shook her head, thinking,
No, No, No
, as the two ladies burst into loud, keening sobs. Then she turned and ran down the hall, but it was empty. Not a single lord stood outside her father's chambers, and Isabel did not understand.
Or did she?
They were either all dead, or afraid of death.
Isabel bit her lip, her heart pumping painfully, tears salty on her lips, and she pushed open his door. A huge form lay unmoving on the massive, canopied state bed. “My lord?” she tried. Her tone sounded raw to her own ears.
There was no response.
And Isabel was terrified.
Too much so to go forward to find out if he still lived—or if he had also died.
She turned and fled, rushing back downstairs, only to find the great hall empty, except for Tom, who lay where she had left him.
Isabel collapsed beside him, already knowing the truth, already knowing that her father was dead, too. “Tom,” she wept, “you cannot die. You cannot leave me, I need you, do not die!”
There was no response, not even the barest flutter of his thick lashes, and through her tears, Isabel realized he seemed terribly still. But her vision was blurred and askew because of her tears, and she blinked furiously, to improve her sight, determined to see him breathing, living, alive. Her vision cleared. He was so still. But surely he breathed?
More dread—more terror—seized her.
Isabel lifted a shaking hand and held it over his mouth.
No breath feathered her hand.
She tried again, her hand shaking uncontrollably now, determined to feel his warm, moist breath on her flesh.
And she felt nothing.
Desperately Isabel ripped open his tunic and shirt and laid her ear
to his burning chest. There was no movement beneath her cheek, no rise and fall of his rib cage as he breathed, and worse, there was no heartbeat, nothing.
He was dead.
And when her uncle, John de Warenne, arrived three days later for the funerals, her infant sister and Caroline were dead, too. But Isabel had survived.
She did not know why.
“I would suspect the plague.”
His voice sounded so far away. Cass had to close her eyes, trying to block out the image of a pretty little girl standing in an empty medieval courtyard, simply stunned by the loss of her entire family.
No, not her entire family. Her uncle had survived. Her uncle had become the earl of Sussex when Isabel's father had died.
She opened her eyes to find Antonio regarding her with concern. “How tragic,” she whispered. “If it was the plague, that should be easy to find out.”
“Tomorrow,” he promised her.
Outside, a wind had picked up. The gusts rattled the window panes.
Cass held his gaze, Isabel's image coming to mind again as a small child. “She was an orphan,” Cass said grimly. “She was the earl of Sussex's niece once her father died. Sussex probably became her guardian; I imagine he must have arranged the marriage for her.”
“I would think so,” Antonio said, his gaze riveted on her face. “Isabel must have had quite a dowry to attain the match. Are you all right?”
Cass was facing him, aware that his enthusiasm had been replaced by concern for her. She still felt shell-shocked. And she was surprised by her reaction to the facts they had just discovered.
She was becoming too concerned with Isabel's life. Or was it compelled?
“Cassandra?” They knelt side by side; his shoulder pressed against hers. “Something is bothering you. What is it?”
The light from the fire illuminated his clear, slightly golden skin, his hazel eyes. Cass took her first sip of the martini. It was cool, bitter, and dry. She had just realized how close to her he was—and Tracey would be walking in at any moment.
Cass stood up abruptly, aware of her guilt. “She had a tragic life from beginning to end. I mean, she lost everything when she was eight—and she died at the stake twelve years later. I'm overwhelmed.”
“I can see that.” His gaze held hers as he also stood. “Perhaps this helps to explain the coldness of this house.”
She stared. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I'm not sure,” he said truthfully. “There is vast charm in doing so, is there not?” He smiled slightly.
Cass had to smile a bit, too. “Yes, it is romantic,” she agreed. “I am somewhat confused,” she confessed. “Wouldn't Isabel have had to convert to Catholicism in order to marry Alvarado?”
“Yes.”
“Then how could she have been tried for being a heretic?”
“In the course of history,” Antonio said, “in the course of
our
history, the converted were often the first scapegoats of the Inquisition.”
“I hadn't realized,” Cass said. “But for some reason, I had assumed she died in England. But maybe you're right, maybe she died here.” Cass shivered. “Well, if she is haunting this house, it is understandable. I would too, if I were in her shoes.”
“Do you think she is haunting this house?” Antonio asked, his regard unwavering.
Cass met his eyes. “I don't know,” she said slowly. Then, “I hope not. But …”
“But what?”
Before Cass could blurt out everything that was on her mind, Gregory said, “You have finally met your match, Tonio. A woman as obsessed with the past as you.” He smiled at them both.
Cass looked at his handsome face and saw that the smile was false, that it did not reach his eyes. She was taken aback. And she wondered if he did not like her.
And in that single instant, the look he gave her was piercing and malevolent.
Cass stepped back, backing right into Antonio, who steadied her. When she faced Gregory again, he was smiling and the epitome of masculine, easygoing charm.
Cass could not breathe. Had she just seen what she thought she had
seen? Had he just given her a look of deep, unrelenting hatred? And if so, why?
For God's sake, they had just met!
Cass was shaken. She moved away from Antonio, and it was then that she felt her presence, before she even saw her. She slowly looked up to find Tracey standing on the threshold of the room.
Cass stiffened, an image of her sister, in a miniskirt, her feet bare, stealing from Antonio's bedroom pervading her mind.
And that was followed by another image, of her sister almost catatonic beneath the tree.
And suddenly Cass hated Tracey. It was Tracey standing between her and Antonio, it was because of Tracey that she would have to refuse Antonio's proposition and return home, it was Tracey who could—and might—take Alyssa away from her at any moment.
And the depth of her hatred astounded Cass.
“Hello,” Tracey said somewhat hesitantly. She smiled at Antonio, then Cass, and finally she glanced at Gregory.
His eyes were wide. His instant admiration for her sister was obvious—Cass had seen such a reaction too many times to count.
Cass turned away as Antonio made introductions. She was shaking. And she hated herself for her jealousy. Why was she being reduced to such base emotion? She was good old dependable, sensible, responsible Cass! She was the family-oriented one, the dutiful niece, the supportive sister, the maternal aunt. She was the peacemaker!
She walked away from the group to stand in front of the fire, to stare into the dancing flames, aware now of the headache that had formed behind her temples. And for one instant, Isabel smiled at her from the midst of the flames.
Cass cried out, leaping away from the fire.
Antonio rushed to her. “Did you get burned?” he demanded, eyes wide.
She gripped his arms, staring unseeingly into his face, seeing instead Isabel, smiling—and not prettily. Cass flung a look backward at the hearth. The fire crackled merrily, innocently, within its confines.
She was shaking like a leaf.
“Did you get burned?” Antonio was asking again, holding her upright.
Cass felt her world tilt and spin.
“Is she all right?” That from her sister—her damnable sister.
“I think she might faint.” Gregory.
Cass had never fainted a single time in her life, and she wanted to tell them that, but before she could get the words out, her world spun into shades of gray and black, while the windows rattled and the wind roared, and then the darkness was complete.
 
 
The plague.
Do you believe in ghosts?
She is summoning all of us together.
Cass felt nauseous. Their voices—Antonio's, Alyssa's—echoed in her mind. And then she really heard their voices, just as something grossly malodorous went up her nostrils. Cass coughed, eyes flying open.
Antonio was bending over her, holding smelling salts. He started to push them toward her again, and Cass turned her head away. “I'm fine.”
“You're not fine.” His tone was terse. “You must be exhausted.”
“She's never fainted in her life, I don't think.” That from Tracey, who stood beside Gregory, the two of them at the foot of the sofa.
Cass tried to sit up, but she was still a bit dizzy and she collapsed.
“Lie still,” Antonio said sharply.
Cass's eyes flew to his because there was no mistaking his tone. He was concerned for her welfare—extremely so.
Something turned to mush inside of her heart. “I'm okay,” she said, aware of the quaver in her tone. “I don't know what happened …” And she froze.
She had seen Isabel in the fire.
“Aunt Cass?” Alyssa's voice sounded, filled with childish fear.
No
, Cass thought frantically. She had not seen Isabel in the fire. She was obsessed with Isabel, and her imagination was playing terrible tricks upon her. “Honey, I fainted. I'm overtired. But I'm fine.”
Alyssa slipped around Antonio, and Cass reached out to take her hand.
“No more martinis,” Antonio said firmly. As he spoke, the phone rang. “Alfonso will get that.” He slid his arm beneath Cass's back and he helped her to sit up.
Cass was acutely aware of him, and she felt herself flush. She glanced at Tracey. Her sister was staring. Nothing had changed.
Or had it?
Gregory was also staring.
Alfonso appeared on the threshold of the room. He was a spry man
of sixty with a head of thick white hair. “Señora,” he said to Cass.
“Teléfono.
Señor?” He spoke to Antonio.
“La cena.”
Cass knew Antonio was about to tell the houseman that he should take a message, and she struggled to her feet. Somehow she knew it was her aunt, whom she had forgotten to call. A moment later she had the phone in her hand. Antonio touched her shoulder; everyone was leaving the room. “Supper is served,” he said quietly. “We will be in the dining room.”
Cass nodded, returning her attention to the call as everyone filed out. “Aunt Catherine?”
“I am so glad … you.” The connection was terrible, filled with an echo and static. “Worst trouble,” her aunt said, sounding far away.
“I can hardly hear you,” Cass cried, gripping the phone. “Can you hear me? Is everything all right?”
“Very well,” her aunt seemed to say. She continued to speak, but Cass could not make out another word.
“Aunt Catherine, I can't hear you!” Cass cried loudly. “We're losing this connection. Can you hear me?”
Her aunt spoke again. Cass heard, “Flight … Madrid.”
“Aunt Catherine?” She stiffened. It felt as if someone had set two heavy boards on her shoulders, which were weighting down her entire body. Cass realized the lights in the library were wavering. Or was that just shadows? She couldn't possibly be fainting again, could she? “What did you say?”
“Castile,” her aunt seemed to shout. “Tomorrow!”
And Cass froze, forgetting to breathe. In that instant she understood. Her aunt was in Madrid and she would arrive in Castilla tomorrow.
And soon Auntie Catherine will arrive …
“No!” she shouted. “Aunt Catherine, don't come, we'll be home in a few days …” She stopped. The line had gone dead.
And as suddenly, the lights in the library went out.
Cass was motionless. She continued to clench the phone as she stood there in the blackness, her heart pounding with undue force, dread washing over her in nauseating waves.
Her aunt was coming to Casa de Suenos.
First she, Tracey and Alyssa had come, then Gregory, and now Aunt Catherine …
“Stop it,” she told herself, slowly hanging up the phone. She groped for the lamp and tried the switch, but the lights did not come on. The fear escalated. Cass reminded herself that the wiring was faulty; this
was a very old, very poorly maintained house. She turned and bumped into a chair, pain shooting up through her knee, and suddenly she felt eyes upon her.
Cass was frozen, incapable of movement, straining to hear, her skin crawling. The sensation of being watched did not diminish. Cass whirled. “Isabel?”
For she could smell her now, the scent of violets wafting closer and closer still. Cass had no doubt to whom the perfume belonged. “Isabel?” She did not feel like a fool; she felt like a terrible coward. She was trembling, her pulse pounding with alarming force. “Are you here?”
The fragrance was overpowering now.
A log fell in the fireplace.
Which was hardly unusual, but now Cass flinched. Warily she scanned the room. Cass faced no one, just a roomful of furniture and paintings. She backed up slowly, glancing around again, but she was completely alone.
Her shoulder was touched by something soft.
Cass cried out, jumping, turning, but it was only a billowing section of drapery. Still, she could not breathe evenly.
Then she realized all the windows were closed, there was no air conditioning in the house, but the damned curtains had moved.
They had moved.
She is here,
Cass thought, desperately.
And then,
No one is here! Don't be ridiculous!
But she stared at the curtains, which were still now. “Isabel? What do you want? I'm not your enemy. I'm your friend. What do you want?”
Cass didn't know what she expected, but there was no reply. She shivered.
“Cassandra?”
Cass whirled at the sound of Antonio's voice. He was standing on the threshold, holding up a candle. Its light was very steady—because the air in the house was so still.

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