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 ope
ned 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.