Free Nachtstürm Castle by Emily C.A. Snyder

more than once wondered whether Colin would be able to tear himself from such a lingually rich place as Nachtstürm, and it was as much for his man’s sake as for pleasing Catherine and puzzling out this mystery that Henry had been willing to stay.   But with   this latest outrage, perpetrated by he knew not whom nor for what end, he had determined to conclude their visit within the day.   Or possibly two days.   A week at the most.
    “No will,” said he, “although that’s not surprising as there’s a rather public will in the library, stating that the old Baron claimed no progeny nor spouse, then naming Lord Branning as his heir.”
    “But is it in the Baron’s hand?”   Catherine pressed.
    “The signature.”
    “Still,” Catherine objected, running her fingers over the spine of her Udolpho and lamenting that several of the pages had folded over when it had been tossed carelessly to the side.   “It might be a forgery.”
    “I very much doubt that, love,” Henry said.   “However, the date is five years old; long before the old Baron believed his son survived.”
    “Then there might be a second will!” said Catherine, very much warming to the subject.   “One that our burglar thought hidden in this room.   Henry, if we could find out where, we might prove William the true heir of Nachtstürm!”
    “We might,” came his careful response.   “But we may as likely prove that Robert Wiltford is the Baron of Brandenburg after all.”
    “No, I cannot believe that.   Why Henry, he doesn’t even want this place!”
    “And can you blame him, Catherine?   When walls open and doppelgängers multiply and every unsafety is promised the fool who stays?   In truth, I hardly know why we have countenanced these horrors for so long.   I hope you do not hate me, Catherine, for bringing you to this place?   But if you like, we can be gone by morning.”   He gathered up his bride’s unresisting hands and held them close to his breast, saying, “I am so very, very sorry for having brought you here at all.   I hope you can forgive me; this is nothing like what I’d planned!”
    Then Catherine did blanche, a hundred horrid suppositions running through her mind.   Still, she supposed with a very great gulp and a steadying embrace from her beloved, Henry’s happiness must also be considered.   He did love to play the hero.   And a hero, as she and Valancourt well knew, required obstacles.   This burglary was one of those.   Surely.
    Except, a rather small and persistent part of her mind whispered, that even Henry would never stoop to endanger her Udolpho .
    So much did the whirligig of Catherine’s fantastical brain twirl that she nearly missed when Henry – his own desire to protect his wife warring with his equal desire to put the mystery to rest – brushed his wife’s brow and eyelids with his mouth and muttered that he was going out and would not be back for dinner.
    “Out!” Catherine exclaimed, looking around her. “Out – when – in this – Henry! You cannot be serious!”
    “Never more so in my life,” said he, taking up his coat.   Then, “Except, of course, when I proposed to you.”
    The compliment would not placate Catherine now, and she stomped her foot. “But tonight , Henry! When there is someone here of such a violent temper! When you yourself doubted whether we should stay!   When there is someone here who wishes us very ill! When it is raining! ”
    “Precisely. I may never have such an opportunity again.”
    “Oh!” Catherine cried, throwing up her hands.
    They were silent for a moment – as silent as one can be when he is checking his flintlock and she is kicking tables and wardrobes – until he said, “I could have Colin sit with you.”
    Catherine sighed. “As you will, Henry. Where are you going?”
    He hesitated, sure that his answer would cause another outcry – and not without reason. “To the graveyard, dearest.   Not very far.”
    All praise must