Devon, England

Dartmouth Castle

1780

 

                                                              Chapter One

 

 

       Tessa Blagden had to try to remember that the boy was not yet ten summers old. He was squirming in his seat while she spoke because he wanted to go play with his friends. At the thought of him playing, she remembered his father telling her that since the disappearance of his mother two and a half years ago, the child didn’t play all that much. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to let pity rule her. The boy had to stay strong.

      “Grayson…child, listen to me.” She took hold of him by the shoulders and stared into his wide, cerulean eyes – the  same color as his great-grandfather, Thoren Ashmore. “I can get into terrible trouble if it is discovered that I gave this to you, though you can probably travel on your own, but just in case, you must keep it hidden. Do you understand?”

      “Aye, Grandmother,” he said, opening his small hands to receive a master key–the likes of which hadn't been invented yet. This one was fashioned from pure gold.

       It was one of many time-alterers in Tessa’s care since she became a timekeeper over a century or so ago.

      “This key will lead you to your heart’s desire.”

       The child nodded and gazed at the door.

      “Grayson, are you listening to me? It will help you heal.”

      His gaze slipped back to hers. He tilted his head slightly as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Then, he spoke in his small voice, “Grandmother, are you going away too?”

      She felt her eyes begin to sting with hot tears. He definitely had gifts. As the only living Ashmore male, he potentially had all the Ashmore/Blagden gifts. She suspected he could communicate with animals after seeing him sitting at the tree line around Dartmouth Castle with a brown squirrel, a fox nearby and a dozen birds, including a big raven flying above his head on more than one occasion. Animals often stayed close to him, and on several occasions, she had seen him in telepathic communication with them, laughing or teasing a red squirrel or racoon. He’d known his mother would disappear before Tessa had known, but she didn’t think he was a seer. When she’d asked him how he’d known about his mother, he told her that he had dreamed about her telling him she had to go away. He was capable of dream communication. Could he travel through time, speak to spirits, see the future? He never spoke of any of it.

      “Grayson?” she said instead of answering him and covered the key and his hands in hers. “Did you make any new friends?”

      He lowered his gaze and shook his head. “The others do not like me.”
      “Whyever would they not like you? You are generous and you have a kind heart.” He was also the most beautiful of all the children in the castle and the villages surrounding it, but best not to tell him too often.

      “They call me names,” he confided in his softest voice.

      She scowled at his bent head and the glossy black locks falling forward. “What kinds of names?”       

      “Ballet Gray, Go-away-Gray. They say Mother left because of me.”

      Tessa stood up with her hands on her hips. “Which children said that to you? Tell me and I will whip their hides with a switch.”

      He looked up at her and the blue-green facets of his eyes darkened like oceans beneath a thundering sky. “Harry Gable, Timothy Cavendish, Nicholas Rowe, and Alan Stephens. But,” he hesitated, looking away again for a moment. “Mother told me not to let the animals hurt them because the animals will suffer.” He gave her a worried look. “Will you suffer if you whip their hides?”

      She smiled and shook her head, but oh, she had tears to shed for this child. His father kept the boy confined within the castle walls to keep him from being kidnapped by his runaway wife. But the duke was rarely home, and his son escaped often to go play in the forest, where he felt completely at home.

      When the duke was at Dartmouth, he didn’t know how to raise a boy alone, especially one who was a little odd and had more animal friends than human ones. A boy who snarled, showing his teeth when he was either joyful or angry, and who constantly practiced ballet moves and jumps like the saut de pendu, [also known as the ‘hanged man’s jump’ or pirouette basse, or ‘low pirouette’.

      A time-traveler, Tessa had lived in the twentieth-first century long enough to be familiar with classical ballet. Gray’s obsession was what, in the eighteenth century, was called comic or grotesque ballet. Grotesque in the sense of the dancer dancing like a dead person, mainly with his head tilted to one side and arms hanging low. The  boy was quite good. Even from a springing jump with one toe touching the floor while stretching the other foot well out into the air as high as possible.

      “Grandmother, are you going away too?” he asked again.

      It was hard to look at him with the truth. Tessa loved him, having been in his life since the moment he entered the world. Her blood flowed through his veins. Gray’s mother, Emma, a descendant of Thoren Ashmore, had produced a baby boy but the eighteenth century was not for her. She’d tried to change it but failed.

      Tessa held his hands and then lifted them to her cheek. “Yes, Grayson, I have to go away, but I will return to you.”

      He was silent for three breaths–Tessa Blagden counted them. And then his eyes misted, and the whites reddened, along with his cheeks. But no tears fell. With disdain staining his little face, he yanked his hands free of her grip and stepped back, out of her reach.

      “Farewell then,” he ground out, then ran from the room.

      Tessa took a step to go after him then stopped. She wiped her eyes then drew in a deep breath. The coming years were going to be very difficult for him. She wished more than anything that she could remain with him, but it was impossible. In fact, she could feel time changing around her already. Soon, she would be gone, just like his mother, but if Tessa didn’t go, the male line of Blagden/Ashmore would cease forever. She had to prepare for her sweet Grayson’s future. She would leave Harper to help him when the time came.

      She spread her loving gaze around his room, dipping her gaze to his bed, his slippers. She wiped her eyes, then closed them. She would see him again. Someday.

 

      The boy opened his eyes to his third day of being alone and tried to fight the emptiness inside him from spreading. But his grandmother had left him, and his mother had never returned to his dreams. He lay there in his large bed in a castle that housed over two hundred people and felt lonelier than a boy raised in the wilds of Wales. He realized–far too young–that his mother had left him long before she disappeared. She was never happy with him and his father. Gray had listened behind their bedroom door on nights when she fought with his father. He hadn’t wanted to, but he remembered some of the things she said.

      If I had known my life would be like this, I would have rid my body of him when I had the chance. I hate all of you! I hate living here! I hate being your wife. I hate being a mother!

      She hated being his mother.

      Abigail, the large Graylag goose from the nearest village, had assured him that adults sometimes told terrible lies. Kitty, the head mouse of the castle had also promised him that they’d heard his mother say other wonderful things about him on different occasions.

      Gray usually believed them, and the things they’d told him helped him not feel so bad. But not this morning.

      He kicked his blankets off and climbed out of bed. If his mother never returned to his life or his dreams, why should he care? If his beloved grandmother wanted to leave him the way his mother had, that was fine with him.

      The bedroom door opened and Harper, one of the castle musicians, stepped inside and curtsied slightly. “Lord Dartmouth, I was just coming to wake you and help you dress for the day.”

      He stopped on his way to his wardrobe and stared blankly at her. “Why are you here again instead of the kitchen?”

      “I’m not the cook. Your grandmother asked me to serve as your nurse. We discussed this yesterday and the day before that. Don’t you remember?”

      “Your speech is odd,” he noted.

      “It’s how people speak where I come from.”

      “It’s,” he repeated with a curious arch of his brow, then shook his head.

“That’s right. Mixing two words together. It’s called contractions.”

      He picked up his steps and opened the door to his wardrobe. “I know what it is called. Do I look like a babe to you? But people in the castle do not use contractions.

      She smiled at him. “My lord, you’re only nine summers old. Here, let me help you dress.”

      “I am almost ten,” he corrected numbly. “I do not need a nurse. Please leave.” He didn’t speak to her again and began picking out what he would wear. He finished stepping into breeches, dyed red especially for him by Clara, one of the laundresses.

      Gray! Gray help!

      He stopped upon hearing the voice of the goose Abigail in his thoughts. He dropped his shirt and ran out of his bedchamber wearing his nightdress and breeches.

What is it? Abigail, what is it?! he begged as he raced down the stairs. She didn’t answer.

He ran from the castle without a word to anyone on the way. Barefoot, he sprinted toward the village, calling to her. She usually greeted him at the edge of the road, but she wasn’t there now.

“Abigail!” he shouted.

      Gray. He heard her say his name weakly. He felt ill. Abigail was the first animal he’d ever spoken to. She was his first friend.

Where are you? He closed his eyes and thought about her as hard as he could. Then he saw her in his mind. Behind a barn. The Gable’s barn. She was laying in the grass, a small arrow protruding from her breast.

     No! No! Abigail, I am coming!

     He knew where the Gable’s lived and ran to the barn. When he reached Abigail, he fell to his knees beside her and cried, for she was almost gone.

    “Who did this to you?” he wept as he gently scooped her up in his arms.

     The boys.

     Who? Tell me who.

     She made a little sound that broke his heart and made him cry even harder.

     Harry Gable, she managed, and…his…friends. Then there was nothing else.

     “Abigail? Please do not go,” he wailed. He remembered her chasing Peter, a potbellied pig around and making Gray laugh while he watched.       She had also chased Harry Gable on a number of occasions, pecking at his head while he ran away yelping.

     Harry Gable.

     He wiped his nose and carried Abigail into the barn. He found a shovel and dragged it into the forest to bury his friend.

     He wept while he said farewell, and then he didn’t cry again.

    “Hey, Ballet Gray.”

    When Gray heard Harry Gable’s voice behind him, he turned slowly and wiped his eyes.

     “I was going to eat the fat goose. Dig it back up before I–”

      Gray hated him and unable to bear anything more coming from his mouth, leaped at him. But Harry was older and bigger. He also knew how to fight. Still, Gray was able to punch him in the mouth before Harry pelted him with his fists until Gray lay on the ground with blood coming from his nose.

      Help! he called out, summoning the animals in the forest. This human boy killed Abigail! Avenge her! Avenge me!

      Immediately, birds swooped down from the branches overhead and began pecking at Harry’s head. Groundhogs appeared and nipped at his ankles, seven foxes hurried toward him and bit him repeatedly until Harry screamed in agony.

      Watching, Gray smiled. When he saw a black wolf approaching, he motioned with his chin and the wolf approached Harry slowly. The other animals moved aside to give the lone predator space.

The wolf pounced once and tore at Harry’s face before a gun sounded in Gray’s ears and his smile faded as the majestic wolf fell to the ground with a whimper.

     Gray turned to see George Gable, Harry’s father holding a smoking flintlock pistol.

     Gray stood to his feet. His heart felt as if it had stopped along with Abigail’s breath. Or perhaps it had stopped long before that.

     He called for more help and within a moment or two, a large raven approached from the north. George Gable didn’t have time to reload his weapon before the raven swooped down and plucked him in his eye, and then in his temple.

     Gray felt a momentary twinge of guilt over George Gable losing an eye and likely his life, but he deserved to lose it since he shot and killed Davith.

     With Harry and his father screaming, Gray left the forest and went home.

      It only took a few hours for word to spread and sink into everyone’s souls. Grayson Barrington had used animals to kill George Gable and maul his son. The young lord controlled them through his devilish power. What’s more, according to poor, young Harry Gable, that Barrington boy had laughed while the Gables were being attacked.

     Gray’s father was away in Exeter so he sent word that his son wasn’t to be touched or punished as there was no proof of their mad claims. But he allowed the village men to hunt and kill any animals they came upon in the forest.

      You used the animals to hurt others and now they will suffer.

      Gray heard his mother’s voice, but it was just a memory. Still, he fought the adults in a heedless attempt to save the animals, but to no avail.          When the men were done hunting, they had killed thirty-seven red foxes, a small pack of wolves in the north, six ravens, sixteen rabbits, and even thirteen squirrels. When the last animal was killed, Gray’s gift of communicating with them died as well.

       Over the years, Gray convinced himself that he had never truly communicated with animals. It had all been just a part of his childish imagination to help him get through the sadness in his life.

        Most days, he didn’t feel a thing, which made dancing like a hanged man easier.

        Most days. But there were others…

    

 1795

      Fifteen years later…

 

      The Most Honorable the Marquess of Dartmouth, Lord Grayson Barrington strode into the Ballroom of Dartmouth Castle as if he owned it, which he did.

      He was given the castle by his father–much to the contention of Gray’s older stepbrother, Timothy Cavendish. Cavendish, the bastard, lived here with his mother,

      Gray’s father’s second wife in the hopes of stealing Gray’s birthright. The thought of it brought a sneer to Gray’s lips and murder to his gaze.

      Of course, Gray wouldn’t murder Cavendish. He’d killed on the battlefield, and even then, only when he had to. He was sick of the sight and the smell of blood and was discharged two years ago for medical reasons after he was found sitting among a dead regimen of French soldiers.        A time of his life he would prefer to forget.

      From the corner of his eye, he could see the flushed, smiling faces of the younger women–daughters of his father’s noble guests fawning over the sight of him in his green silk-velvet three-piece suit , edged in bronze embroidery. His snug, matching breeches and tight hose drew their eyes to his strong thighs and shapely calves. His raven hair, kept shorter than was the fashion because it was easier to wear it disheveled or spiky, as it was tonight, was waxed and powdered white just beyond his dark roots.

       He was the only man at court who wore his natural hair powdered instead of a wig. But Lord Dartmouth was known to be odd and a bit off. He did what he wanted, dressed however he liked, whether his style was in fashion or not. As for his hair, why should he force a tight wig onto his head when he had a perfectly thick head of hair? Sometimes he left it as black as the waters of the Dart Estuary outside the castle, and slicked back, displaying his stark beauty.

      He cast the younger ladies a sensual, come-hither look and bit his bottom lip. He beckoned them to him, but none had the courage to step forward. He laughed softly, turning his attention to the disapproving glares of the duke and duchess of Milford, Earl Bixley and his wife, and Earl Swatington. Swatington’s wife was sizing him up like a juicy slab of beef and she had not enjoyed any meat in years.

      He was mad. Rebellious. Obsessed with the macabre. Poor duke to have such an heir.

     He’d heard it all before and let it bounce off his armor. Two things would happen before this, his stepmother’s first ball of the early Spring season was over tonight. First, he would anger and embarrass his father and his father’s wife, and the second, he would enjoy doing it.

He wished the enjoyment would last, but it never did. It was always temporary, momentary and then the anger and the misery returned. These people had no idea how his dancing kept him sane and all of them unharmed.

       No one here would be able to stop him if drew his sword. After years of training for war and then actually fighting one against the French, he knew how to kill, and he knew how to be merciless if necessary.

       He spotted Elspeth Gable pretending to find no interest in him while he strode forward. He let his gaze rake over the hall until he found Elspeth’s husband, Harry Gable.

       Gray had often thought about killing him. But…he slid his warm gaze back to Elspeth…making Harry’s wife desire him was a far more satisfying revenge.

       And so, he kept his eyes on her while he cued the musicians to play the music he had chosen from an Italian composer Francesco Molino.             Gray took the liberty of changing the tempo. When the musicians picked up their instruments, the guests gave him the dancefloor and he took it.

       He leaped high, extending his legs and landing as if he broke all his bones. He stood and bent his arms, swinging them at the elbows. He stepped forward, keeping time with the tempo, hips thrust out, toes pointed. He bent lower and spun on one foot while holding his face in his hands and turning his head as if he might twist it off. His body moved in perfect synchronicity with the music, and while some–including Elspeth Gable–watched him in spellbound awe, most looked away at the grotesque.

        He caught his father’s eye from where the duke sat at the dais with his wife, Eloise Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. Gray liked his stepmother as much as he liked her son.

       His father glared at him across the empty floor. Gray chuckled silently. Was it anything new? No. Every time Gray danced his father cast him murderous looks. Gray didn’t remember a time when he hoped his father would watch him with pride and perhaps a little admiration for his son’s expertise on the dance floor.

       Gray had learned every dance there was and practiced the steps until he didn’t have to think about them. But knowing how to dance was one thing, being the best dancer–according to everyone who’d seen him, was another. Even those who didn’t like his unconventional style had to admit Grayson possessed a natural flair that made his body move differently and better than anyone else.

       But Thomas Barrington, His Grace the Duke of Devonshire, didn’t agree. He continued to glare.

      Gray didn’t care. He continued dancing until his breath came hard, raising his shoulders around his ears. When the musicians began to play an English folk song about a man shooting his neighbor over a spilled drink, Gray danced his sometimes-comedic style of ballet. When the lyrics told of a villain aiming his gun at his neighbor, Gray found Harry Gable again in the crowd. He lifted his index and middle fingers and closed one eye to aim, then fired.

       Surrounded by gasps and whispers, Gray lowered his hand and grinned at Harry.