By me writing as Rachel Wilson

Jove Haunting Hearts

1999

 

One of the best books of 1999, according to Heartland Critiques.

 

Buy it!

For sale: One American castle. Ghost included

 

According to local rumors, Crowfoot Castle in Bittersweet, New York, was haunted. But it wasn’t the castle ghost that unnerved the new owner–it was the castle’s beautiful housekeeper, Genevieve Crowfoot.

 

The Crowfoot and Rakes families had been feuding for a hundred years.  Now, with the Crowfoot fortune spent, their lavish American castle was sold to the highest bidder -- the infuriating Tobias Rakes!  Genevieve Crowfoot knew she should have left Tobias at the mercy of the castle ghost.  But when she saw the tenderness beneath his haughty eyes, she swore she wouldn't abandon him.  Staying on as his housekeeper, Genevieve was about to be swept away by unseen forces -- a dangerous enemy, a love that struck as quickly as summer lightning, and perhaps some help from beyond . . .

 

 

Chapter One

 

Bittersweet, New York, May 1895

 

The black surrey bumped along the uncared-for road, through thick woods that Tobias hadn't seen for almost twenty years. He looked around with interest, trying to suppress the twinge of nostalgia threatening to attack him. It was foolish to be sentimental about something that held nothing but painful memories, and Tobias knew it. Still, those memories were all that remained of Tobias's childhood, and he was hard-pressed to keep the faint longing at bay.

 

"I don't know why you're interested in this old heap, Mr. Rakes. There are much better properties for sale in Bittersweet. Properties that would require less work than this decaying pile of stones."

 

"I told you, call me Tobias."

 

"Tobias," Wesley Armitage said obediently.

 

Tobias Rakes glanced at Armitage, who was Tobias's attorney, and took cynical satisfaction from the fact that Armitage seemed to be valiantly trying to hide his true feelings. What the lawyer really wanted to say was that he considered Tobias a damned fool for exhibiting an interest in purchasing Crowfoot Castle.

 

It amazed Tobias that so trivial a thing as money could influence how one was treated in this world. As little as a year ago, when Tobias was one of the hundreds of penniless soldiers in the Army of the West who were attempting to rid the Dakota Territory of its so-called Indian problem, Armitage probably wouldn't have spoken to Tobias at all had they chanced to meet. That was before Tobias's tibia was fractured by a Sioux's arrow, and before his maternal grandmother died and left him a fortune. He was also sure Armitage couldn't care less about Tobias's near-fatal wound. It was the money that held Armitage back from speaking his mind.

 

Armitage wasn't alone. Now that Tobias was known to be a rich man, everyone seemed determined to call him a hero and curry his favor. He imagined he could shoot off his Army revolver in the Bittersweet public square without incurring anything more serious by way of retribution than lifted eyebrows and behind-his-back gossip.

 

Which was all right with him. Thanks to that arrow, his military career was over, and it was just as well to be rich if one were crippled. A familiar wash of bitterness made him frown.

 

"For one thing," he said, resuming the conversation while bracing himself on the buggy seat and trying not to jar his leg, "it will annoy the very life out of my father. The Crowfoots and the Rakeses have hated each other for generations, you know."

 

"Yes," said Armitage, his tone indicating he was repressing another lump of bile, "I know. Everyone in Bittersweet knows about the feud."

 

"I'm sure they do." They didn't know, perhaps, that Tobias Rakes and his own father, Ernest, had been carrying on their own personal feud since Tobias's seventeenth year, half of Tobias's life. At least, they would have been feuding had Tobias remained in Bittersweet after the eruption. Instead, he'd spent the past decade and more roaming half the world over in an effort to escape his heritage and his own idiocy.

 

Armitage sighed deeply. "Well, take a good look, because if you do aim to buy it, I don't want you blaming me if you have to sink a fortune into restoring it."

 

"I won't blame you, Wes."

 

Armitage drove his buggy as far up the overgrown drive as he could, but a fallen tree blocked their passage before they were even halfway there. Armitage glanced at Tobias with some concern. "I fear we'll have to walk from here. Will you be--all right?"

 

"Diplomatic of you," Tobias said dryly. "Yes, I'll be all right. I can't run and skip any longer, but I can walk." With the aid of his cane and a good deal of physical agony. Tobias felt his lips thin and made an effort to relax them. He didn't want anyone to know how galling he found his disabled state. To keep his mind from his plight, he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings.

 

Crowfoot Castle loomed up from the encroaching vegetation like something out of an Arthurian legend. Turrets soared and spires pierced the sky. Vines crawled up chimneys that undoubtedly housed the nests of generations of birds. Tobias wondered if the chimneys would smoke once they'd been swept free of debris. Probably. He'd have gas lines run in to the old place, and install electrical wiring. No sense living in the dark ages, even if one did plan to live in a castle.

 

A crenelated wall surrounded the castle, and from where the buggy waited, Tobias could barely see the huge stone porch and the enormous double doors to the castle. One could imagine knights saluting lovely ladies. The ladies, of course, would be standing on the castle leads, waving their men off to war.

 

Theirs would be a noble, chivalrous war. Not the kind of war Tobias had been engaged in, prompted by the white men's greed and the Indians' struggle to survive against a more powerful invading civilization. In Tobias's mind, there was nothing noble about chasing down starving Indians. He also considered that the Indians had been offered precious little justice by way of treaties and payments--which the whites had never yet honored--although he knew he'd never be able to make anyone else understand that. A fellow had to be there in order to understand it, and even then the whole situation had made little sense.

 

Annoyed with himself for allowing his mind to wander, he studied the castle. Wes was right about it, Tobias owned. But, while it had obviously been neglected in recent years, it could be a stunning building if someone poured enough money and heart into it. Tobias didn't have the heart, but he had heaps of money. That would have to do.

 

Created from honey-colored stone, quarried locally before the American Revolution, Crowfoot Castle seemed to absorb the summer sunshine and glow at him. The old place appeared almost friendly, for a castle. The word came to Tobias out of the blue, and he smiled because the image was so incongruous.

 

Contentious old Charles Crowfoot, the money-grubbing Yankee businessman who'd built the castle a hundred and twenty-five years ago, had, according to all accounts, been anything but friendly. Not that Tobias held Charles's lack of congeniality against him. According to those same accounts, Tobias's great-great-great-grandfather, Gerald Rakes, Charles's business partner, had been every ounce as mean-spirited and disputatious as Charles. In fact, they'd deserved each other.

 

Trying not to grunt with pain, Tobias lowered himself from Wes's surrey, being careful not to jostle his wounded leg any more than he had to. After the arrow had shattered his tibia, his femur had broken when he'd fallen from his horse. Tobias had barely managed to convince the field doctor--and then only at gunpoint--not to amputate the leg. He wasn't positive yet that sparing the damaged limb had been a good idea. Still, as long as it was attached to the rest of him, there was a chance it would heal eventually and allow Tobias to resume some of his former pursuits.

 

"The grounds haven't been kept in anything like order, as you can see," Wes said, sounding crabby about it.

 

When Tobias glanced at him, the lawyer was poking at an overgrown lilac bush whose blossoms scented the warm spring air. Trilliums and buttercups and dame's rockets rioted behind what looked like it might have been a privet hedge once upon a time.

 

Tobias remembered the names of all the flowers and was surprised at himself. His mother had taught him about flowers when he'd worked beside her in her well-loved garden. She'd died when he was ten, leaving him to the questionable mercies of his father, but Tobias still remembered the names of the flowers.

 

He shook his head and gazed beyond the flower beds to what had once been a rose garden. Unpruned rose branches reached for the sky through overgrown bushes and weeds, and hooked the leaves of unpruned bushes on their thorns. These were pleasure gardens run amok, and Tobias felt somehow akin to them.

 

He breathed deeply. Yes. Although he knew better than to hope for happiness in this life, he was beginning to get the feeling that, with luck and liberal applications of his maternal grandmother's money, he might find peace here. Even if his leg never healed enough for him to ride again, he could clear out the shrubbery and take long rambling walks on his estate. He'd get himself a couple of hounds to romp at his heels. Hounds were faithful, unlike people. Besides, merely knowing that his father would be home, hunched over his desk in the Rakes's estate and gnashing his teeth with fury, made the prospect a pleasant one.

 

They walked slowly through the brambles, bushes, and weeds, Armitage moderating his pace to suit Tobias's halting steps. A host of bees busied themselves among the flowers, a regiment of birds chirped from the trees, and Tobias saw a hummingbird dip its long beak into a bell-shaped purple flower on a straggly morning-glory vine. He'd forgotten how pretty the bluebirds were. By the time he and Armitage had walked through the wall's arched porte cochére, which reminded Tobias of the entrance to a cathedral he'd seen in France, and approached the stone porch, Armitage had a key out.

 

"I'm sure all the hinges in this place screech like banshees. Don't worry. The villagers claim the castle is haunted, but I'm sure it's only rusty hinges." Armitage set down the lantern he'd been carrying and worked on the lock.

 

Tobias laughed. "I'm not afraid of ghosts." He'd encountered much worse than ghosts in his life.

 

"Glad to hear it." Armitage pushed on the door. Sure enough, it groaned like a choir of off-key ghosts as it swung open to reveal the huge flagged entryway. Armitage stood aside and allowed Tobias to enter before him.

 

Tobias glanced around with interest. The castle was built on a grand scale. Faded tapestries that looked as though they hadn't been cleaned or dusted for decades covered the walls, and a tattered runner spanned the flags from the front door to the enormous oaken staircase which divided halfway up into two arching stairways. "Charles Crowfoot didn't spare any expense when he built this place, did he?"

 

"No, he didn't. And his descendants haven't spared any to keep it up, either. Here, let me light this lamp. It's dark as a tomb in here."

 

Even after Armitage lit the lamp, the room seemed murky. "It's because all the curtains are drawn," muttered Tobias. He walked to a long window and pulled aside thick velvet draperies, dislodging a cloud of dust and exposing tall, leaded, and very dirty stained-glass windows. In spite of the impediments in its way, sunlight poured into the room. "There. That's better."

 

"If you say so."

 

Tobias chuckled at Armitage's tone, which was stuffed to the brim with disapproval. "Lead on, Wes. Show me the many wonders of Crowfoot Castle."

 

"I don't think there are any."

 

"Show it to me anyway. I want to know what I'll have to do to make the place livable if I decide to buy it."

 

"Tear it down and rebuild a decent house with modern conveniences in its place would be my suggestion," Armitage posited acidly.

 

"Tut, tut. I think Crowfoot Castle will be the perfect home for me."

 

With a heavy sigh, Armitage shook his head. "All right, if you say so. Follow me."

 

So Tobias did.

 

###

 

Genevieve Crowfoot peered around with distaste and thrust the enormous key to the front door of Crowfoot Castle into her apron pocket. "Uncle Hubert didn't believe in wasting money on servants, did he?"

 

Genevieve's aunt, Delilah Crowfoot, her nose wrinkled and her brow furrowed, said tartly, "No, he didn't. He didn't believe in spending money on anything except his precious books."

 

"I've never seen so much dust."

 

"Nor have I. Not that it surprises me. Hubert always was a mean, tight-fisted boy."

 

"Boy?" Genevieve laughed. "He was eighty-three when he died, Aunt Delilah."

 

"You know very well what I mean, Genevieve Crowfoot."

 

"Of course I do, Aunt." Genevieve bent and deposited a quick kiss on her much-shorter aunt's plump cheek. Then she sighed. "I suppose we ought to get started. The sooner we begin, the sooner we'll be through."

 

"I'll be glad to be rid of this old pile of stones."

 

"Oh, I don't know." Genevieve led the way through her deceased uncle's dusty, gloomy entrance hall, carrying a bucket and a mop and an armful of rags and other cleaning implements. Her aunt carried a lantern. "I've always rather liked knowing the castle belonged in my family. It's a nice old place."

 

"Nice? Humph. It's outlandish, if you ask me. Your great-great-great-grandfather must have been awfully full of himself to want to build such a place in America. A castle, my foot."

 

"Now, now, Aunt Delilah. The Revolution hadn't been fought when he built it. New York was a British colony in those days. I suspect Charles Crowfoot was merely being traditional, and spent his money creating a grand estate, the way he might have done if he'd remained in England."

 

Delilah uttered another humph, and Genevieve laughed. "All right, perhaps he was being more extravagant than traditional."

 

The two ladies set to work with vigor, scrubbing and dusting and mopping. Genevieve had seldom been inside the castle, her uncle's eccentricity and misanthropy having successfully kept his family, as well as the rest of the world, at bay for twenty years and more. She would be sorry to see the old place sold, and she hoped whoever bought it wouldn't rip it down and build a new house, but would live in the castle. She'd hate to see it destroyed even if a castle was, as her aunt believed, somewhat out of place in the state of New York.

 

Genevieve herself had always lived in the much smaller cottage on the castle grounds. Originally built for the castle steward, the place had been plenty big enough for Genevieve, her parents, and her aunt Delilah. An only child, sometimes lonely, Genevieve had frequently thought how nice it would be to have swarms of children romping up and down the castle steps and playing in the expansive grounds. The grounds, which contained not only lawns and gardens, but a good-sized forest, were large enough to hold an army of children. She and Benton, her late cousin, used to play Robin Hood and his merry men for hours and hours during the long summers of their childhood.

 

Not that Uncle Hubert had maintained the grounds any better than he'd kept up the inside of the castle. Cocklebur bushes, nettles, weeds, and brambles choked pathways that had once been raked and graveled and that had twisted through several beautiful gardens. Genevieve, who enjoyed horticulture, would love to get her hands on some pruning shears and have her way with what used to be the rose garden.

 

She stood up, wiped her forearm across her dripping brow, and stretched the kinks out of her back. "I'll have to tackle those windows later. I'm sure we won't even get the hallway and the library finished today."

 

Delilah, red-faced with bending and mopping, straightened too. "I'm sure you're right." She frowned. "I don't know if it's worthwhile to spend a lot of time in here. Whoever buys it will probably only tear it down."

 

Genevieve snorted. "I'd be embarrassed to have anyone even look at the place in its present condition."

 

"Well, there is that."

 

"And if we can get it looking fairly decent, perhaps a buyer will see its worth and want to restore it."

 

Delilah said nothing, but Genevieve could tell her aunt didn't believe it, so she detoured to another tack. "Besides, this will give us a chance to go through Uncle Hubert's things and decide what to keep, what to sell, what to take to the poor box at church, and what to burn."

 

"I'm sure Hubert never had anything I'd want to keep."

 

"You didn't like your older brother much, did you, Aunt Delilah?"

 

Genevieve wasn't surprised to see a guilty expression settle over her aunt's gentle features.

 

"I'm sure that as a Christian woman I loved my brother, but you must admit he was a hard, tight-fisted man."

 

"You're right, Aunt. It's difficult to imagine the two of you coming from the same family."

 

A noise from the oak stairway made both ladies spin around, startled. Genevieve didn't put any stock whatsoever in rumors about the castle being haunted. Still, it was a huge, gloomy old place, made more gloomy by what seemed like centuries' worth of dust and decrepitude, grime, and cobwebs clinging to its walls, floors, and furnishings. She pressed a hand to her pounding heart. "My goodness, I do believe the spooky atmosphere in here is getting to me."

 

"It got to me before we even opened the door," Delilah said darkly. "Although it's probably only remnants of Hubert's personality cleaving to the stones. He never wanted to part with anything at all, much less his life."

 

Genevieve gazed at her aunt with real appreciation. "You have a poetic streak a mile wide in you, Aunt Delilah. Did you know that?"

 

Delilah blushed. "Nonsense!" But Genevieve could tell she was pleased.

 

The noise came again, this time louder. Then Genevieve heard a voice.

 

"I don't know, Wes. I think the place has charm."

 

"Charm! Rats I'm sure it has. But charm?"

 

Genevieve almost dropped her mop when two men appeared at the top of the landing where the stairway divided. Delilah gasped and clutched Genevieve's arm, her fingers digging in like pincers. Genevieve recovered first.

 

"Who are you?" she inquired sharply. Then she recognized Wesley Armitage and let out a huge gust of breath. "Oh, Mr. Armitage! I didn't know you were planning to drive out here today. You gave us such a start."

 

"Miss Crowfoot." Armitage smiled broadly and ran down the massive oak staircase. He held out a hand as he approached the two ladies. "Yes, indeed, we have a possible buyer for the castle. Tobias and I came out today to look the place over."

 

At this news, Genevieve looked up quickly, and she saw the other man. With a small gasp, she drew herself up straight. Good heavens, what an unpleasant-looking fellow he was. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he eyed her and her aunt as if he wished them to perdition. Dressed all in black, leaning on an ebony cane, and with an expression sharp enough to chop wood, he looked like he'd stepped out of one of Washington Irving's old tales about Puritanical pilgrims.

 

Noticing her expression, Armitage turned. He maintained his own smile with no apparent trouble, obviously enjoying the situation. "Miss Delilah Crowfoot and Miss Genevieve Crowfoot, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Tobias Rakes."

 

Delilah let out a little squeak and a breathy, "Rakes?"

 

Tobias Rakes, a corrosive smile twisting his harsh features, came forward. He didn't carry that cane for looks, Genevieve noticed; he had a distinct--and, she suspected, painful--limp. "Indeed, ma'am." He removed his black hat and bowed. The gesture appeared supercilious to Genevieve. "Tobias Rakes, at your service."

 

It was not for nothing that Genevieve Crowfoot was well known in the small village of Bittersweet for possessing a sunny disposition. At once, the humor of the situation struck her and she laughed out loud, drawing a sour squint from Tobias Rakes. "It's rather daring of you to venture into enemy territory, Mr. Rakes." She held out her hand for him to shake. She had ages ago decided that a hundred years was long enough for any family feud, and she wasn't about to perpetuate it.

 

Tobias Rakes eyed her hand for a moment before he took it in his own black-gloved and much-larger one. "Miss Crowfoot." He made no comment about her reference to the Crowfoot-Rakes unpleasantness.

 

She refused to allow his dour manner to intimidate her, and hence, looked him square in the eye. Nor did she flinch at the frigidity she saw reflected in the ice-blue gaze staring back at her. Good heavens, the man was as cold as Bittersweet Pond in the dead of winter. "Are you looking the castle over for some fell purpose, Mr. Rakes?"

 

He left off glaring knives and daggers at her and glanced around the entry hall. Genevieve did likewise, taking pleasure in viewing the newly cleaned and shiny flags. The room would look quite nice with a few colorful rugs scattered around and perhaps some bright paintings on the walls.

 

"Yes, Miss Crowfoot. I'm thinking of buying it."

 

His words jolted her. "You're thinking of buying it? A Rakes?" Genevieve burst out laughing again but, feeling foolish, slapped a hand over her mouth.

 

For the first time since she'd first seen him, Tobias smiled. His smile was so glacial, she wished he hadn't.

 

"Indeed, madam. I am seriously considering it."

 

"Mercy," Delilah whispered at Genevieve's back.

 

Genevieve choked back her laughter. Because the answer was important to her, she asked bluntly, "If you do buy it, will you tear it down, Mr. Rakes?"

 

"Tear it down?" He turned, pierced her with another blue stare that felt like tiny icicles stabbing into her, and lifted a sardonic black eyebrow.

 

"Mr. Rakes has taken it into his head to fix the place up if he offers for it, ma'am," Wesley Armitage said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, his smile gone.

 

"Fix it up?" Delilah repeated blankly.

 

"Oh, Mr. Rakes, how wonderful!"

 

From his frigid mien, Genevieve guessed she should have contained her enthusiasm. Then she decided she didn't care if this cold, hard man considered her silly. His avowed intention thrilled her. "I do hope that you will buy it then, Mr. Rakes, and that you'll be kinder to the old pile than Uncle Hubert was. As you can see, he let it fall into dreadful disrepair. Aunt Delilah and I were trying to tidy it up before Mr. Armitage began showing it, although it will probably take an army of housemaids to make it respectable again."

 

"I should have told you we'd be coming out here today, Miss Crowfoot. I apologize."

 

Armitage looked contrite. Genevieve, as notorious for her soft heart as she was for her sunny disposition, laid a hand on his arm. "Oh, no. It's perfectly all right, Mr. Armitage. As long as you warned Mr. Rakes beforehand--"

 

"He warned me." Tobias sounded bored.

 

Nettled by his attitude, Genevieve said, "Fine. Then Aunt Delilah and I will continue our work." She inclined her head and turned away from him.

 

Poor Delilah, who never quite knew what to do in uncomfortable situations, nodded as well, and peered with some surprise at her niece. Genevieve imagined her aunt was shocked by her shabby behavior, but honestly! One should be expected to take only so much. If that man wanted to be aloof and unfriendly, so be it. Genevieve had better things to do than try to lure him into behaving nicely.

 

"Ahem. Yes. Well then, good day to you, Miss Crowfoot." That was Wesley Armitage, who had a manner or two to rub together.

 

Ignoring Tobias Rakes, Genevieve turned again, shook Armitage's hand, and smiled at him. "Good day to you, Mr. Armitage." And, without acknowledging Tobias Rakes's presence by so much as another glance in his direction, she resumed plying her mop.

 

She heard the two men talking as they headed to the front door, and she heard the front door open and bang shut as it closed behind them, echoing in the front hall like a vault door slamming. A shudder rippled through her. To dispel the eerie mood engendered by the unsettling sound, she snorted. "Well! If that man buys the castle, I suppose I'll be glad of it because he said he won't tear it down, but I've never met such a reserved, unpleasant man in my life."

 

"He's a Rakes, dear. You know what they say about the Rakes men."

 

"I don't believe being a member of any particular family gives one the privilege of being uncivil."

 

"No, I suppose not. But you must recall your uncle Hubert. If ever there was an uncivil man, it was he."

 

That drew a chuckle from Genevieve. "You're right, of course."

 

"And don't forget, dear, that poor Mr. Rakes has an exceptionally sad tale behind him."

 

"Ah, yes." Genevieve remembered. "Something about a failed love affair, wasn't it? And his father disapproving?"

 

"Disapproving? I suppose he did disapprove!"

 

"Hmm. I was only eight years old at the time, and no one would talk about it in front of me for fear the lurid tale might lead me into wickedness." She grinned at her aunt. "Why don't you tell me the story, Delilah? I'm past being corrupted."

 

"Corrupted?" Delilah clucked her tongue at her niece. "The things you say, Genevieve. Oh, it was awful, though. The beastly man disowned his son. Cut him off without a dollar to his name. And all because the poor boy had fallen in love with a female the old man considered unsuitable."

 

"The way I heard it, she was married. That sounds rather unsuitable to me."

 

Delilah sniffed. "Perhaps she was. But the dear boy was only seventeen years old at the time. He was only a baby, really, and she was ever so much older than he was."

 

"Hmm. So you believe the affair was her fault?"

 

"I'm sure of it. I knew Madeline Riley, my dear, and I can tell you that she was no better than she ought to be."

 

The expression tickled Genevieve, and she smiled as she dipped her mop in the bucket.

 

Delilah continued, her sense of injustice giving impetus to her broom. "And even if the poor boy did exhibit faulty judgment, I can't imagine casting off my only child, whatever the provocation. I knew his mother before she married Ernest Rakes, you know, and she was a lovely person. I'm sure that if she'd lived, she could have steered her son in a more suitable direction. But that father of his was as hard and cold as an iceberg. He was totally unsuited to the rearing of a spirited young lad."

 

Genevieve mulled over her aunt's words. "Perhaps you're right, Aunt Delilah. It's hard for me to imagine disowning a child."

 

"I should hope so. You, my dear, have a heart, unlike some people I could mention."

 

Amused by her aunt's vehemence, Genevieve laughed as she carried her bucket of filthy water to one of the low panels of tall stained-glass windows in the hall. With some effort, she pried up the latch, then pushed the window open and lifted the bucket to empty the water.

 

When she glanced outside, she saw Tobias Rakes and Wesley Armitage standing in what had previously been a flower garden. Tobias had a hand resting on a stone dolphin protruding from what might have been a pretty fountain once upon a time. It looked to Genevieve as if he were attempting to take some of the weight off of his damaged leg, and she took herself to task for judging him without knowing his full story.

 

With a sigh, she dumped the dirty water onto the weeds choking the ground below and turned away from the window. "He sustained a terrible injury in the army, too, if I recall correctly."

 

"My goodness, yes. Why, he was attacked by Indians, Genevieve!" Delilah's voice throbbed with excitement, and she gave an eloquent shudder. "Can you imagine such a thing? Attacked by wild Indians. I believe it was in some outlandish place like the Dakotas or something."

 

"Hmm. Yes, I think you're right." Genevieve contemplated the entryway and considered what to do next. They had determined to tackle one room at a time, but Genevieve rather thought she'd had enough of mopping for one day. "Do you suppose we should start on the library now, Aunt? I'm tired of bending over and scrubbing floors."

 

Delilah sighed. "I suppose that's a good idea. I'm not looking forward to dusting all those old, musty books, though."

 

"Nor am I, but it must be done. I suppose some of them might be valuable."

 

"You're right, of course."

 

"There might be some treasures in the library. First editions and whatnot."

 

"Humph."

 

Genevieve grinned. She loved her aunt very much. Aunt Delilah's presence in her life did much to assuage the pain of her parents' death. "I think I'll leave the window open. Maybe the place will air out some."

 

Delilah made a noise that clearly conveyed her doubt, and Genevieve's grin broadened. "Well, it can't hurt."

 

"I suppose not."

 

So the two ladies, armed with feather dusters, rags, and tins of furniture wax, entered a room at the end of the entry hall that used to serve as Hubert Crowfoot's library. Genevieve's heart fell when she pushed the door open and surveyed the room. "Oh, my. I had no idea he had so many books."

 

"I told you he never relinquished anything, Genevieve. He was particularly greedy about his books." Delilah sounded as discouraged as Genevieve felt.

 

"Well, there's no help for it. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish."

 

"Yes. Perhaps if you begin at that end--" Delilah pointed toward the west wall. "--and I begin at this one, we'll meet in the middle someday."

 

Because she was so fond of her sweet aunt, Genevieve kissed her cheek again. "Good idea, Aunt Delilah. And perhaps we should sing as we work. When Benton and I were made to do things we didn't want to do, we often found that singing helped us along."

 

"Dear Benton." Delilah sighed, for Benton had been everyone's favorite. He'd died of a lung ailment when he was twenty and Genevieve but eighteen, and the family, such as was left of it, still missed him.

 

Because she knew her aunt had a strong religious streak, Genevieve cast about in her mind for a hymn, leaving aside those that referred to the Holy Ghost, since she didn't want Delilah's fanciful mind to begin churning over old ghost stories. After a moment, she started singing "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name," one of Delilah's favorite hymns. It also had a perky, if somewhat martial, tune to it, which added to its charm in this instance. Delilah joined in, and soon the library rang with music. Genevieve was sure the old castle had seldom been filled with song. It seemed a pity to her that it should be so. If she had her way, the whole world would sing, the sun would always shine, and people like Tobias Rakes would open their hearts to life's beauties and not dwell on past injuries and injustices.

 

They'd been working for an hour or more, pulling out the books one by one, clapping pages together, and dusting off cracked leather bindings, when a thick, yellowed paper fell from the book Genevieve held. She watched it flutter to the floor and sighed. She'd stood and squatted so much today, she was sure her muscles would scream at her tomorrow. Nevertheless, she squatted once more and retrieved the piece of paper. Its condition and the old-fashioned writing on it drew her attention, and she glanced more closely at the words written on it. Her cursory glance transformed into an astonished stare. "Aunt Delilah!"

 

Delilah sneezed, then turned, wiping her nose with a handkerchief retrieved from an apron pocket. "What is it, dear?"

 

Genevieve looked up from the paper. "Have you ever heard rumors about a treasure hidden somewhere in the castle?"

 

"A treasure?" Delilah blinked, her placid face expressionless. "I've heard about the ghost, but never anything about a treasure."

 

Nodding, Genevieve reread the words written on the paper. Maybe she'd read them incorrectly the first time. No. No matter how often she read the words, they remained the same.

 

"My goodness," she whispered. "My goodness gracious sakes alive."

 

"What is it, dear?"

 

"I do believe there may be more in this castle than dust and old books, Aunt."

 

"You do?"

 

"I do. According to this--" She held the paper out, being careful not to damage it, because it was very old and brittle. "--Great-great-great-grandfather Charles Crowfoot was hiding a vast fortune in here somewhere." She smiled at her aunt. "And I aim to find it before that awful man does."

 

Her aunt's mouth fell open and her eyes widened. "Well, bless my soul!"

 

Alice Duncan

P.O. Box 4316

Roswell, NM 88202-4316

alice@aliceduncan.net