Penmort Castle

Chapter Eighteen The Warriors Assemble

Abby parked on the street across from her house.

She couldn’t park in her drive, there were three white vans parked there.

And she couldn’t park in front of her house, a skip containing a distressing amount of debris was sitting there.

As she got out of her car, a man walked out her front door carrying a toilet. She watched as he went straight to the skip and hefted it over the side.

She winced when she heard the toilet crash into the skip.

“All right?” he called and her eyes went from her toilet, which she hadn’t realised until that moment held sentimental value, to the man.

“All right,” she called back.

Then, before she could witness more, she hightailed it to Mrs. Truman’s.

Mrs. Truman had the door open before Abby’s foot hit the first step on her stoop.

“Bang bang, crash,” Mrs. Truman snapped irately as Abby ascended the steps. “All day yesterday, all day today. Those workmen are loud. My dogs are in a state!” She stepped out of the way for Abby to precede her into the entry, all three dogs moving around Abby’s calves calling for attention. Then Mrs. Truman continued as she slammed the door, “I want a word with Fraser. You give me his phone number the minute you take off your coat.”

Abby considered the emotional turmoil Cash put her through that morning (she was blaming him as it was far easier on her peace of mind then to blame herself or the unthinkable, give in to her current dilemma). Then, once she handed her coat to the older woman, Abby very unkindly pulled her mobile out and gave Mrs. Truman the number.

“Hang on, hang on,” Mrs. Truman chanted, her arm up, hand waving in the air, “let me get my phone.”

She led Abby and the three dogs (who appeared to be happy and excited, not in a “state”) down her hall into the sitting room where Fenella and Cassandra were both seated. Fenella was biting into an enormous scone filled with clotted cream and jam. Cassandra was holding a saucer in one hand and daintily sipping from a delicate china teacup in the other.

Abby greeted them both with a wave and all three dogs jumped up on the sofa beside Fenella and her scone.

Abby, at Mrs. Truman’s orders, was there to have tea with Fenella and Cassandra in order to devise a strategy to defeat a ghost.

Bearing in mind that Abby’s move from being Cash’s pretend girlfriend to his real girlfriend (or possible mistress, depending how you looked at it, and Abby was trying not to look at it at all) was approximately nine hours old, it was likely not good that she was already withholding something from him.

Trust was important in a relationship.

Then again, Cash would probably, first, flip out that she was going to sit down with his cousin, a witch-cum-clairvoyant and Mrs. Truman and decide a plan of action to conquer a ghost.

Then he’d have her committed.

So Abby thought it her best option to enter the part of her life’s journey that included Cash by, essentially, lying to him.

She was, she found, totally okay with that.

“Abigail, I’m ready, give me his number,” Mrs. Truman demanded as Abby seated herself in an armchair next to Cassandra and across from Fenella.

Mrs. Truman was standing with hand on hip, other hand curled around a phone, thumb at the ready.

Perhaps at this juncture calling Cash wasn’t such a good idea.

“Maybe you can call him after we have our chat,” Abby suggested.

“But I’m angry now. I might cool off after I eat a scone. I baked those scones myself and I bake the best scones of anyone I know,” she bragged with not a shred of humility. “If I eat a scone, I might want to take a nap instead of have my word with Fraser.”

Abby came up with a better idea. Not only was it her turn, it would mean Cash’s torture would last a whole lot longer (and he couldn’t hang up).

Therefore she suggested, “We’ll have you to dinner.”

“When?” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“Tomorrow?” Abby asked.

Mrs. Truman immediately dropped the phone into its receiver, accepting Abby’s invitation by announcing, “I don’t eat celery,” she sat down beside Fenella and reached for the teapot, “or peppers. They give me wind.”

Abby heard Cassandra chuckle and Fenella raised her eyebrows, her lips pressing together in an effort not to laugh.

Mrs. Truman poured Abby a cup of tea and splashed a dash of milk in it while going on, “And if you make beef, I won’t eat it unless it’s well done. I’m English. We cook our beef through. That’s the way we’ve always done it, that’s the way we’ll always do it. No one does tradition like the English.”

“I bet the Italians would have something to say about that,” Cassandra put in.

“Pah!” Mrs. Truman retorted.

“And the Spanish,” Fenella added timidly.

“And practically everyone else, but the Americans,” Cassandra finished with a cheerful wink in Abby’s direction and Abby decided instantly she liked her.

Mrs. Truman handed Abby her tea. “Are we here to talk tradition or are we here to talk ghosts?” Once she’d divested herself of Abby’s tea, she turned to Fenella and pointed at her. “You! Start!”

Fenella’s eyes moved to Abby and she began, “Well –” but Mrs. Truman cut her off.

“And don’t be all mealy-mouthed about it. Spit it out!”

As ordered, Fenella rushed on.

Eyes on Abby, she asked, “You didn’t slip when you were in the bathroom, did you?”

Abby blinked in surprise and then looked at Mrs. Truman. “Did you tell her?”

“No. I. Did. Not,” Mrs. Truman stated clearly. “Abigail Butler, how many strangers do I ask in for tea?” Abby didn’t have time to respond, Mrs. Truman went on talking. “I heard her banging on your door and I went out to see what the all racket was about. She told me who she was and I decided to ask her over and pump her for information. She told me about Vivianna Wainwright and how she thought you’d been injured by a ghost. I told her I knew all about it and we were going to figure out a plan to defeat the ghost and she said she wanted to be involved.”

Abby’s surprised eyes went to Fenella. “Are you sure?”

“Well, no,” Fenella replied hesitantly then swallowed, “Vivianna’s scary and she’s mean. She never hurt any of us, not us girls, but she doesn’t like Alistair and she’s always doing stuff to him. And the servants. I don’t want to be on her bad side.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be involved,” Cassandra said gently and Fenella’s eyes moved to her.

“I also don’t want her around anymore,” Fenella looked at Abby. “I don’t want her to hurt anyone else and especially not someone like you.”

“Like me?” Abby asked, confused.

“Like you,” Fenella answered.

“What does that mean, like me?” Abby pushed when Fenella’s answer didn’t contain any further information.

“The love of Cash’s life!” Fenella announced way-too-loudly, almost in a screech.

Abby felt her heart stutter to a stop.

Then she whispered, “I’m not the love of Cash’s life.”

“You are,” Fenella returned.

“Honestly, Fenella, I’m not. We’re –” Abby began.

“You are,” Fenella interrupted, “even if it wasn’t obvious to everyone around, she knows. She knows. Vivianna knows exactly who Penmort’s master loves best and dearest. True love. Complete, devoted and unconditional. Only those loves does she kill.”

Abby’s eyes skipped around the room to Mrs. Truman then to Cassandra and back to rest on Fenella.

They all were watching her.

“Fenella, honestly, Cash and I are –”

“In love,” Fenella finished.

“No, we aren’t,” Abby insisted, her voice getting stronger.

“Okay, well, I haven’t known Cash all that long but I do know some stuff. First, I know he never brought a woman to Penmort and he’s had loads. Loads and loads and loads,” Fenella stated.

“We get it, loads, move on,” Mrs. Truman demanded, circling her hand.

“Second, every time he comes, he acts like the minute he enters he wants to leave. He doesn’t like Suzanne and he hates Alistair. The only one he really likes is Mummy. When you were there, it was different. He was different. I’ve never seen him that way with anyone. None of us had. Mummy, Honor and I were in a lather about it for days!” Fenella went on.

“I still don’t –” Abby started to protest, even though everything Fenella was saying was freaking her out, but Fenella talked over her.

“And everyone knows Vivianna’s spell. She not only cast a spell over her immortal soul so she’d forever haunt Penmort, she also cast a spell so she would know, without doubt, the one, true love of its master, for eternity, so she could make every ancestor pay for her spurned love. Only the true loves were put to death. The other ones, well, I reckon she just annoyed them,” Fenella’s eyes went to Cassandra and she informed her as an aside, “She can be annoying too, not just scary.”

Abby felt the need to point out the obvious, “Cash isn’t even Penmort’s master.”

At that, Fenella made a weird, squeaky noise in the back of her throat.

“What?” Cassandra asked, leaning forward.

Fenella’s gaze darted around the room not landing on any of them and finally, eyes on her knees, she said softly, “Everyone knows Cash should own that house. Everyone knows he was the true heir. Everyone knows Anthony Beaumaris loved Myra Fraser. He just didn’t marry her because she was a loon.”

Abby bit her lip in order not to laugh, or yell, at Fenella describing Cash’s mother as “a loon”.

“That doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t own the house,” Mrs. Truman put in and Fenella looked at her.

“That’s true. But he should,” Fenella replied. “The line has never gone from brother-to-brother. It’s always gone from father-to-son. Always.”

“He still doesn’t own Penmort,” Cassandra pressed.

“But he should,” Fenella returned firmly. “And Anthony died while making provisions to the castle’s covenant that would transfer title to his son, even if born out of wedlock.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows went up and she murmured, “That’s interesting.”

“It is,” Fenella murmured back, “especially when you know that Anthony died in a car accident.”

Abby’s breath caught at this news and she stared at Cash’s cousin.

“A car accident?” Abby whispered.

Fenella nodded. “Something was wrong with the brakes.”

“That’s terrible,” Mrs. Truman remarked.

Fenella pulled in a breath. “When I say something was wrong with the brakes, I mean something weird was wrong with the brakes. The police reckoned they’d been tampered with but they could never prove anything.”

“Oh my Lord,” Abby breathed.

“Very interesting,” Cassandra muttered while sitting back.

Mrs. Truman’s gaze snapped to Cassandra. “Why? Outside of the fact that Fraser’s father was likely murdered, of course.”

Cassandra took a sip of tea and put the cup back in her saucer. “It’s interesting because, if that’s so, Cash Fraser is, rightly, Penmort’s master. And Vivianna likely knows that or senses it. Which means Vivianna’s actions last week weren’t simply meant to be a warning or simple malice. It means Abby is genuinely in the line-of-fire.”

“Listen to me people,” Abby cut in with frustration (and maybe a hint of fear). “I’m not Cash’s true love. Okay? Seriously. Not. His. True. Love. Therefore, I don’t fit the profile of the victims.”

Everyone stared at her.

Finally, Mrs. Truman spoke, “He does seem rather fond of you.”

Cassandra’s eyes locked on her. “For a bloke who doesn’t feel strongly for you, he seemed pretty outrageously pissed off on your behalf the other night.”

Fenella added on a mini-shriek, “I think it’s love. Mummy does too!”

Abby threw a hand up and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, muttering a defeated, “Bloody hell.”

Mrs. Truman made a “humph” sound before commanding, “Let’s move on. Cassandra, what have you got?”

Cassandra leaned forward and put her cup and saucer on the table, sat back and stated, “Not much that’s good.”

“Explain,” Mrs. Truman demanded.

Cassandra drew in a breath and looked at Abby. “As a mortal, you can’t fight a ghost. They’ve got paranormal powers, you don’t. Most ghosts just hang out and haunt. Some ghosts, the not-so-good variety, cause havoc. Others, like Vivianna, who was a witch and a pretty good one as far as I can tell, can be pretty powerful.”

“This is not sounding good,” Abby mumbled.

“If you want to defeat a ghost you have four options,” Cassandra continued.

“And those are?” Abby asked.

“The first, you find its mortal remains and burn them,” Cassandra replied.

“I’ve seen that on TV,” Abby told her, and she had. That show with two hot brothers, one sensitive, one wise-cracking, both running around fighting demons, burning bones and shooting spirits with shotguns loaded with salt.

That show was great!

Cassandra nodded. “It’s true.”

“Well, it’s gross to dig up a grave and burn bones but let’s do that,” Abby suggested brightly.

“Can’t,” Mrs. Truman put in.

“Why not?” Abby queried and Mrs. Truman looked at Fenella.

“I’ve done a little research over the years, seeing as I’ve lived with Vivianna for, what feels like, ever,” Fenella told them. “I found out the townspeople didn’t really like her much. They were into all that hocus pocus stuff back then and knew about the burning-the-bones-thing so, after she threw herself off the castle, they gathered together the pieces and burned her remains.”

Abby did a little shiver at the thought of gathering up Vivianna’s “pieces” then she enquired, “Then how can she still be around?”

“Either they didn’t salt it first, doesn’t work if you don’t salt it,” Cassandra explained, “or, if they did, which they likely did, because everyone knows you salt the body before burning it, then Vivianna probably knew she’d have to get around that. So, she left some earthy remains somewhere.”

“Okay then,” Abby said slowly, “we’ll find her remains and burn them.”

“In a week?” Mrs. Truman demanded then finished on a firm, “Impossible.”

Abby stared at Mrs. Truman thinking she was, unfortunately, right.

“Okay, what’s choice number two?” Abby asked on a sigh.

“Choice number two was what we were doing at your house Saturday night,” Cassandra answered. “A mortal can’t fight a ghost, but a ghost can fight a ghost. We were seeing if there were any of your relatives hanging around who could help out. Normally you can’t leave the place you haunt. And that place has to be either where you died, where you lived or somewhere you spent a lot of time. But I know a spell that can un-tether a ghost. Not for long, but for long enough for your relative either to take down Vivianna, or provide you with protection while you’re at the castle.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work,” Abby remarked.

Cassandra shook her head. “Nope. Fortunately for them and you under normal circumstances, all your relatives have gone on to the next plane. Under these circumstances, it’s rather unfortunate.”

“What’s choice three?” Abby asked.

“Choice three is that you take a potion which would make you able to fight a ghost. It would give you keener senses so you’d see her, even if she wasn’t making herself visible. If done right, the potion would mean you could sense she was coming, giving you a warning. If done really right, the potion would allow you to combat her, physically or at least ethereally,” Cassandra explained.

Abby thought that sounded great. “Let’s do that.”

Cassandra shook her head and Abby’s shoulders fell.

“The potion needs three weeks to ferment. A month to work well. About six months to work well enough to fight back. It isn’t often you need to fight a ghost. I didn’t have any in my larder. I made a batch after Mrs. Truman called and explained what was going on but it won’t be ready in time,” Cassandra told Abby.

“What happens if I take it early?” Abby queried.

“You get sick. Very sick. Stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, fever, delirium, cold sweats – you name it, you’ll get it. It only lasts a few days, a week at most, but you’ll look like death and not only will you want to die, those around you who don’t know you took the potion, like your boyfriend and, say, doctors, will think you are. Dying that is,” Cassandra said.

“Well, that’s out,” Abby muttered.

Cassandra leaned toward Abby, her eyes going soft, and said gently, “I’ve sent out feelers to see if any other witches have a usable potion, Abby. I know it doesn’t sound good but maybe we’ll catch some luck.”

Abby gave her a small smile before asking, “What’s option four?”

“Option four is your cat,” Cassandra told her.

Abby blinked. “Zee?”

Cassandra nodded. “Not all felines have the ability, but your cat does.”

“What ability?” Fenella asked.

Cassandra looked at Fenella. “Ghosts don’t like cats on the whole. But cats like Abby’s they’ll avoid like the plague. Cats like Abby’s can do what Abby could do if we had a usable potion. See the ghost, even when hidden, sense it before it comes and fight it.”

“Fight it?” Abby prompted.

Cassandra leaned forward and nabbed a scone and a knife. “Fight it, yes, but not destroy it. Fend it off. Say, if Vivianna was stalking you or even attacking you, your cat could do her damage. Weaken her. Make Vivianna disappear until her strength returns.”

“Let’s do that!” Fenella screeched.

Cassandra’s eyes went back to Fenella as she cut open her scone and started to slather it with cream. “Two problems with that.”

“Bloody hell,” Abby muttered and thought, Great, two more problems.

“One,” Cassandra continued, “when Vivianna came back, she’d be angry. Very angry. Abby would be gone but your family would be in targeting range.”

“That’s not good,” Mrs. Truman commented under her breath.

“Two, I said Abby’s cat could fight it, I didn’t say her cat would win,” Cassandra noted. “And Vivianna can’t die. But Zee can.”

“That’s out,” Abby stated instantly.

Everyone went silent.

Then Fenella cried, “So what are we going to do?”

“I need a scone,” Abby muttered, leaning forward and seizing her own scone.

“I’ve got some amulets, some powders, some potions. All for protection. Some of it pretty potent stuff. I’ll give Abby everything I’ve got and show her how to use it,” Cassandra answered Fenella.

“And then what?” Mrs. Truman asked.

Cassandra sat back with her fully-loaded scone and responded, “Then we hope,” she took a big bite and chewed.

Suddenly Mrs. Truman’s back went ramrod straight and she looked from right to left.

Then she said, “That better be Jennifer.”

“What better be Jennifer?” Fenella asked.

The doorbell rang and Cassandra, Fenella and Abby stared at each other in astonishment. They hadn’t heard a thing that would herald a visitor.

Then again, nosy Mrs. Truman undoubtedly had super-powered ears.

“Is Jenny coming over? I thought she was out with her pensioners on a field trip,” Abby asked, going for a double dip of clotted cream. Since she’d likely be dead in a week’s time, she might as well go to her grave with clogged arteries and cellulite.

“Yes,” Mrs. Truman answered while getting up and bustling toward the door, “she’s got a lead. She was checking it out. She must have news.”

Then Mrs. Truman was gone.

Abby spooned jam on her scone and glanced from Cassandra to Fenella. “It’s nice of you both to do this.”

Fenella just smiled and waved her hand in front of her face.

“I’m not nice,” Cassandra said, “I’m getting paid thirty quid an hour for this gig.”

Abby’s hand froze and the jam slipped from her spoon back into the pot. “What?”

Cassandra’s eyes went from the jam to Abby. “Thirty quid an hour.”

“But,” Abby began then looked back to her scone and jam, clearing her throat, “I didn’t… that is to say, I’m happy to pay you, I just didn’t –”

“I work for Mrs. Truman. She’s paying me,” Cassandra informed Abby and Abby’s mouth dropped open.

“Really?” she breathed.

“Sure,” Cassandra replied.

“I’ll have to pay her back,” Abby muttered while squishing the top of the scone on her jammy, creamy bottom.

“I wouldn’t try that,” Fenella warned.

Abby looked at her. “You wouldn’t?”

Fenella shook her head. “I mentioned I wanted to contribute, seeing as Vivianna is a family problem really. Mrs. Truman was a tad…” Fenella hesitated then leaned forward and whispered dramatically, “upset.”

Abby could very well imagine Mrs. Truman’s “tad upset” being described, more aptly by an American as “having a conniption”.

She decided not to mention it to the older woman. She also decided to bake her some cookies. And, maybe, buy her a knick knack.

Or two.

“This will not do,” Mrs. Truman declared, walking back into the room, followed by Jenny.

And Jenny was followed by a man the like of which Abby had never seen.

Well, she had. In a movie. And blowing on a bagpipe.

But not in someone’s living room during afternoon tea.

He was wearing full Scottish gear, kilt, hose, ghillie brogues, garter flashes, knife in the hose, belt, sporran, the whole enchilada.

He came directly to Abby, arm out, his shock of white hair wild, his face red either from cold or it was that way normally, his crooked, slightly demented smile wide and his huge body lumbering ungainly across the room.

“Wee lass, am I happy to meet ye,” he declared, Abby put her hand in his and he pumped her arm so hard, her whole body shook. Jam splodged out of the scone in her other hand and splatted on her knee. “Uh. Sorry,” he mumbled, letting go of her hand, his eyes on the jam.

“That’s okay,” Abby murmured, dropping her scone on a plate and grabbing a napkin to wipe up the spill.

“Praise be!” he cried, Abby jumped, looked up at him and he shouted, “A fine beauty and a sweet lass. Nothing better for our native son.”

“Oh my,” Fenella whispered, eyes wide and staring at the Scot.

“Were none too happy, we Scots, when Cash Fraser found himself an American. But one as fine as you, lassie, we couldn’t be unhappy for long,” he told her and then gave her an exaggerated wink.

“This is preposterous,” Mrs. Truman announced, arms crossed on her chest, narrowed eyes on the Scotsman.

“Mrs. Truman, give him a chance,” Jenny mumbled. “We need all the help we can get.”

“I’ll give him a chance,” Mrs. Truman returned, “a chance to turn around and walk out my front door.”

“What’s this I’m hearing?” the Scotsman bellowed.

“Maybe you should tell us who you are,” Cassandra suggested, peering at him closely.

“Excellent idea,” the Scotsman declared and put his hands to his hips, planting his legs wide. “I’m Angus McPherson,” he told them as if that said it all, which it did not.

“You are not,” Mrs. Truman informed him irritably and he blinked.

“I’m not?” he asked.

“No one is really named ‘Angus McPherson’,” she stated.

He shook his head and then recovered.

“Well, I am,” he retorted.

“Are not,” Mrs. Truman shot back.

“Am too,” he roared on a forward lean.

“All right!” Abby cut in loudly, standing and facing Angus. “Why don’t you,” she stopped and turned to Jenny, “or maybe, Jenny, it should be you who tells us why Angus is here.”

Angus didn’t catch Abby’s hint.

“I’ll be hunting the ghost who wants to murder the true love of a Scotsman, that’s why I’m here,” Angus declared.

“Oh my,” Fenella said again.

“Um…” Abby began then was uncertain how to proceed so she went for the most obvious point, “I’m not his true love.”

“Balderdash!” he shouted.

“I’m not,” Abby insisted.

“I’ve seen the pictures, lass. That boy loves ye, make no mistake,” Angus decreed and Abby’s eyes went to Jenny who made a slight grimace and shrugged.

“Scones!” Angus boomed, “Jam! Cream! The only three things the English could ever do right.” Then he pushed forward toward the plates of food while the women tensed for The Truman Detonation to End All Truman Detonations.

They didn’t get it.

Instead, Mrs. Truman asked calmly, “Mr. McPherson, would you care to desist eating my food before you tell us how you’re going to make Abigail safe?”

“Don’t you worry, I got my ways,” Angus replied, cutting open a scone.

“Why don’t you share your… ways?” Mrs. Truman suggested but without it sounding even a bit like a suggestion but an awful lot like a demand.

“Can’t,” he returned, flipping open his scone, “family secret.”

“I’m afraid we’re not ready to rely on, nor pay for I might add, any ridiculous and likely ineffectual family secrets,” Mrs. Truman proclaimed.

Angus loaded cream on his scone. “Oh, I’ll not be expecting payment, woman. I’m doing this for a fellow Scot,” he boomed out the word “Scot” and all the women jumped except Mrs. Truman.

Then Cassandra murmured, her eyes on Angus, her voice strangely filled with awe, “Oh my Goddess, you’re The McPherson.”

Angus slopped an enormous spoonful of jam on his scone but his head turned to look at Cassandra and his loud voice had gone quiet when he replied, “That I am, lass.”

“I thought The McPhersons were a myth,” Cassandra breathed, still staring wide-eyed at Angus.

At her comment, Angus chuckled, “No, love, we’re real.”

“What’s this?” Mrs. Truman demanded to know.

Cassandra continued staring at Angus then she sat back, glanced at Mrs. Truman then her eyes moved to Abby.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she informed Abby.

Abby looked at Angus, who had straightened and was consuming his scone, unabashedly getting cream and jam all over his mouth. Then she looked back at Cassandra.

“Really?” Abby asked, not convinced.

Cassandra nodded. “Really. The story goes that the McPhersons have been hunting ghosts successfully, very successfully, for generations.”

“Twelve, to be exact,” Angus put in, mouth full.

“Twelve generations?” Fenella whispered.

“Aye,” Angus answered. “Proud. Stalwart. Strong. The McPhersons,” he proclaimed these words like he’d said them a million times before. “Never saw a ghost I feared, and I’ve seen some nasty pieces of work, make no mistake. Started training when I was eight, never looked back.”

All the women stared at him speechless until Mrs. Truman broke the silence.

“So what you’re saying is, this gentleman,” Mrs. Truman made the word “gentleman” sound like saying it caused physical pain, “knows what he’s doing?”

“If the stories are true, which apparently they are,” Cassandra said, “then yes.”

“Been wanting a crack at Vivianna Wainwright since Anthony Beaumaris approached me the week before he died to ask me to have a go at her,” Angus informed them and all the women pulled in breath at this shocking revelation. “His brother wouldn’t let me near the castle after he died, though.” Then Angus finished in an undertone, “Something wrong with that one. Bad seed.”

Abby’s eyes moved to Fenella who, luckily, didn’t appear to hear Angus’s last.

“Fraser’s father asked you to deal with Vivianna?” Mrs. Truman asked.

Angus shoved the last bite of scone in his mouth, nodding, chewing and wiping his mouth before he spoke again. “Didn’t want his woman and son in the castle with Vivianna around. Anthony loved her, intended to marry her, knew Vivianna would take her out.”

Abby stared at the Scotsman. “But I thought that Anthony didn’t want to marry Myra. I thought –”

“Aye, he did, lass, told me himself,” Angus interrupted her. “He was an interesting character, Anthony, not an easy man to like. But he knew what he wanted and he wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way. Not her illness, not a ghost. He fully intended to take care of her and his boy.” Then Angus shook his head and finished softly. “Shame he never got the chance.”

Abby felt her heart squeeze and her eyes flew to Jenny. “Cash doesn’t know this. I’m certain he doesn’t.” Jenny was giving her a look that said, clearly, it was none of her business, but Abby’s gaze swung back at Angus. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

“I’ll tell him,” Angus offered immediately.

“No!” Abby cried and then put her hands to her mouth, feeling her pulse beat in her throat. Her mind flying in a million different directions, she dropped her hands and continued. “Cash doesn’t know about Vivianna and I don’t want him to know. Not yet,” or ever, Abby thought but didn’t say out loud. “I don’t want him to know about you. I mean, who you are, what you do. He’ll think you’re nuts. He’ll think I’m nuts. If he hears this, he won’t listen to anything you say. Maybe we can find a way for you two to meet that doesn’t involve ghosts and ghost hunting and, whatever, and you can tell him.”

And, if Abby was able to finagle a meeting between Cash and Angus, she might suggest Angus lose the kilt.

Angus shrugged. “However you want to do it, love. Some folks believe. Some folks need to see to believe. Some folks need their loved ones hurled off the top of a castle by a spirit-bitch-from-hell to believe.” When Abby’s mouth dropped open, her racing pulse stopped dead and her breath caught in her lungs, Angus leaned in and gave her a merry wink. “We’ll see that last one doesn’t happen to you.”

Bloody hell, Abby thought.

Abby stood at Cash’s bathroom sink, eyes on the medicine cabinet and she stared at her bottles and tubes which were intermingled with the Cash’s limited toiletry collection.

This vision stirred many feelings in her, too many, both good and bad.

Indeed, she had too many things on the whole to think about, not just feelings, everything.

She tried to prioritise them.

After about two seconds, she realised this was impossible.

Instead, she decided not to think at all. She’d think about everything later. Tomorrow, or the next day, or after she was certain she wasn’t going to be hurled off the top of a castle by a spirit-bitch-from-hell.

So she closed the medicine cabinet door and saw herself standing there, wearing another one of the nightgowns Cash gave her. This one was a dusty-pink satin with ultra-thin straps that went over her shoulders and criss-crossed to hold together the sides of a dipped-low back. The hem fell to just above her knee and the satin hugged her body closely but not uncomfortably, like it had been made for her.

She loved it. It was elegant and graceful and the satin felt like heaven against her skin.

Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing you slept in. It was too delicate. She’d worry all night that she’d snap one of the straps or something.

But Cash had bought it for her obviously wanting her to wear it.

Since she was his… whatever... she didn’t know if she could say no.

And she wasn’t going to ask.

So she was wearing it.

She walked to the door, opened it and turned out the light.

Both lights were lit on either side of the bed. Cash was on top of the covers, legs out, ankles crossed, shoulders against the headboard, laptop on his thighs. He was wearing a pair of black, drawstring pyjama pants and his glasses.

He looked good.

His eyes came to her and he smiled.

That made him look even better.

Abby sighed and walked to her side of the bed.

She slid under the covers and her eyes caught on her hand cream that was sitting on her bedside table.

Her side of the bed. Her hand cream. Her bedside table. All in Cash’s house.

Instead of thinking about how this made her feel, she reached for the hand cream and opened it.

Abby was on her side, her back to him and she heard Cash speak, “Darling, can I ask a favour?”

A favour?

Could he ask a favour?

Or, if he was giving her a monthly instalment on which to live, and didn’t want her to work, was she essentially still working for him? Not as an escort, pretend girlfriend and glorified whore but as his mistress which could be considered a real girlfriend but was also kind of a glorified whore.

While she was struggling with this, Cash called, “Abby.”

She rolled to her back but her head turned to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

She looked away and squirted the lotion in her hands while mumbling, “Sorry, miles away.”

She put the cap back on, returned the tube to the nightstand and rubbed the lotion in her hands.

When she was done, Cash demanded softly, “Abby, come here.”

She looked at him again and he lifted his arm out in invitation.

She accepted and scooted under the covers toward him. When he had her close, his arm bent and he skilfully tucked her into his side, her cheek on his ribcage, and his fingers cupped her shoulder.

“You with me?” he asked quietly.

She nodded and stared at the screen of his laptop which showed a complicated, multi-coloured pie chart with lots of numbers, words and arrows pointing at wedges of the pie.

“Now can I ask you to do something for me?” he enquired.

“Sure,” she told him.

His fingers gave her a squeeze and Cash continued speaking gently, “Next time we go out to dinner, don’t have a cream tea at Mrs. Truman’s in the afternoon. You barely touched your dinner.”

Abby continued to stare at the pie chart.

It was true, she’d barely touched her dinner.

And it wasn’t just dinner. It was a special dinner. It was a special, celebratory dinner.

She hadn’t known that when she got all dressed up. She hadn’t known that when Cash had taken her to a beautiful, romantic inn in the country. She’d begun to realise it when she saw they had a booking and were led to a secluded table with the champagne already chilling in a stand at the table’s side. She knew it for certain when they didn’t order but were served a pre-ordered, delectable meal of lobster, shrimp and avocado salad followed by individual beef wellingtons and finished with decadent, rich, dark chocolate pots.

Cash didn’t declare his undying love, give her a bouquet of the finest roses, nor did he hand her another velvet box containing expensive jewels.

Nevertheless, his point had been made.

Beautifully.

Unfortunately, that afternoon, Abby was suffering a mini-nervous breakdown after all that had befallen her. It was the kind of mini-nervous breakdown which every girl knew could be staved off by engaging in an eating frenzy. Therefore, she followed her first scone, which was more than enough, with another one.

During dinner, she’d also had her mind on a million things, starting with her grandmother’s house being torn apart and ending on the possibility of her body flying apart when it landed at the bottom of Penmort tor.

Therefore, she had barely touched her delicious, special, celebratory meal.

“Sorry,” she muttered and put her hand on Cash’s stomach.

His fingers gave her shoulder another squeeze just as Abby felt Zee’s kitty body land on the bed.

Her cat cautiously walked across the bed and stopped. Likely considering his options, he chose Abby’s ankle and deposited himself half-on, half-off it.

Then he started purring loudly.

Abby relaxed into Cash’s side and her hand slid from his stomach to wrap around his waist.

Cash’s left hand moved across the touchpad and clicked the buttons while the fingers of his right hand started to stroke Abby’s shoulder.

Abby watched the chart disappear and a spreadsheet with an insane amount of data, including words and numbers, came up. Cash scrolled through it so fast there was no way he could read it. Abby certainly couldn’t. But he clicked it closed and then pulled open another one which had more columns, more rows, more words and big numbers.

He started to scroll through that at alarming speed and Abby called, “Cash?”

She meant to ask him about his work, particularly why he did so much of it.

But when he replied, “Yes?” for some reason she didn’t ask.

Instead, she forged on to an even less comfortable subject. “Um, can I tell you something?”

His finger on the touchpad froze and he murmured, “Anything, darling.”

She pushed up on a hand and turned to look at him. His eyes caught hers and his hand slid around to rest on the back of her neck.

“Promise you won’t get mad?” she asked.

His fingers gave her a squeeze before he assured, “Promise.”

She bit the side of her lip and watched as, behind his glasses, his eyes fell to her mouth and something changed in his face. She couldn’t put her finger on it but it looked like humour mixed with warmth.

“I asked Mrs. Truman to dinner,” she admitted and he’s eyes moved directly back to hers.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she went on.

“Abby –” he started.

She pushed back and blurted, “I know I should have asked before making plans and I know Mrs. Truman can be a pill, but she was angry about the workmen making noise and demanding to phone you at the office. I had to do something!”

Abby was, of course, making it sound like she was protecting Cash, rather than deliberately throwing him under the bus which had been her earlier motivation but she thought that was the best way to go.

“It’s fine, Abby,” Cash told her.

“Well, um… I’m not done.”

Cash just looked at her, silent.

Abby went on. “Fenella was there and Mrs. Truman invited her along.”

Cash’s brows drew together.

Abby soldiered forth. “Then she invited Cassandra then Jenny.”

Cash’s eyes narrowed.

“Then Fenella called Nicola and she invited her.”

Cash stared at her a moment then closed his eyes and sighed.

“And Nicola asked Honor,” Abby finished on a whisper.

Cash’s eyes opened and pinned her to the spot.

Then she tried to put a positive spin on things. “Suzanne can’t make it.”

“Well thank God for that,” Cash remarked dryly and Abby bit her lip again.

“I’m sorry, Cash. It mushroomed out of control before I could –” Abby stopped talking when Cash’s arm suddenly curled about her waist and he pulled her close so her torso was resting on his, their faces barely an inch apart.

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” he muttered.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“It’s fine,” he told her.

“I’ll do all the shopping,” she babbled on, even though he said it was fine, “and cooking. And I’ll try to get them to go home early so you can get work done, if you have things to do.”

He blinked slowly, as if she’d somehow surprised him and even though she thought this was strange, she kept right on going.

“Just, you know, find a way to take me aside and give me a warning when you get home, if you have things to see to that is. I’ll take care of it so you can get away. Promise.”

He stared at her for a moment she could swear like she was some strange but wonderful, fantastical being.

Then he bent his neck and touched his mouth to hers.

Something about his kiss was different.

It was strange.

But it was also, definitely, wonderful.

Abby didn’t get a chance to process it. He shifted her so she was back in position, cheek on his ribcage and he went back to scrolling through spreadsheets, opening and closing charts and reading through documents at alarming speed.

Zee had moved away when Cash pulled her up but he came back, walked up Abby’s leg and jumped down into the space made by the crook of her hips. He curled in a tiny, kitty circle and started purring.

Cash didn’t say a word at the addition of Zee he just kept clicking through documents.

Abby watched them fly by as she stroked her cat and Cash twirled a lock of her hair between his fingers.

Then, before she knew it, she was asleep.