The Lost Treasure of Lorne

Chapter Eight

They went off to bed, but Caitlin's mind kept worrying at the problem. After trying and failing to find a comfortable position in which she could sleep, she gave up and lit her candle so she could make some notes on new places to search. Not that she could think of any.

But the candle light showed seven of the ghost girls, including Fiona, standing in a row and staring at her. "I am trying," Caitlin told them.

Seven girls, all in a row. All with the distinctive Lorimer features. The lost ladies of Lorne? The tale said there should be eight—eight times a Lorimer lass and a Normington lad had loved, and eight times the lass had died, with Morag the first and Fiona the last.

But wait. What were they doing? All of them were suddenly busy, quills or needles or brushes in hand, writing or sewing or drawing. A few moments of feverish concentration and then an orchestrated pause with all eyes on Caitlin. Again the activity followed by the stare. And again.

It was a clue. It had to be a clue. But what did it mean?

***

"There is no point in further searching," Caitlin announced in the morning.

John frowned. "You are giving up?

Michael looked up from sprinkling salt on his porridge. "Not our Caitlin." He gave her a warm smile. "What do you suggest?"

"Not me. The lost ladies." Caitlin told them about the early morning game of ghostly charades.

"But what on earth could they mean? The secret is in writing or...? Oh." John trailed off as he put it all together.

Michael had figured it out too. "You think the ladies have left instruction in what they've written, drawn or sewn?"

"We need to check the library." John was already standing, pushing away his plate.

Caitlin gestured for him to sit down. "We need to check the library, the attics, every desk and chest, and every wall. But first, we need a plan and you might as well eat your breakfast while we discuss it, John, for we have a busy few days.

After breakfast, Michael ordered trestle tables set up down the centre of the banquet hall, and sent servants to fetch every image that might have been created here at Lorne or by a lady of Lorne. Every watercolour, oil painting, line drawing, embroidered image, or tapestry. Framed or unframed. In the attic or the cellars or anywhere between. On walls, cushions or chair covers. Large, medium-sized or small. The servants spread out and began returning with their finds.

Michael had had no idea that there were so many, and no notion where to start, but Caitlin ordered the smaller ones laid out on the nearest table, as many as it could hold, then began at one end, pointing to an image while staring into empty space, her eyebrows raised in question.

Ah. Clever girl. She was asking the ghosts whether this piece of artwork had significance.

As Michael watched, John nodded and stepped forward to remove the painting, while Caitlin moved on to the next. Several of the local servants could also see the ghosts, it seemed, for they stepped forward too, to follow Caitlin down the row removing the images that the ghosts refused but leaving a good number on the table.

Or was it the other way around? No, because Caitlin said to the butler, "You might as will have the discards rehung, Masterson. I am sorry for all the work."

"Not at all, madam. We are happy to help," Masterson said, bowing slightly before he ordered some men to the work.

What a woman. When even a very proper English butler recognised her quality, surely a duke could only take heed. Of course, he knew now why she did not wish to marry him. The Normingtons were responsible for the deaths of her father, so many of her kin. He himself had killed her uncle and stolen her heritage. But, he had also loved her and protected her and if he could not change the past he could at least put her back in the position to which her birth entitled her. By all holy things, he would have this out with her once they'd found the treasure and saved the ghosts, for if he could not have Caitlin Mo– Caitlin Lorimer as his wife, he'd have none.

***

By the end of the day, they had the images sorted and had begun on the words. Books, diaries, letters, recipe folders. Every single piece of paper with any kind of handwriting on it from any corner of the castle, which had seemed large yesterday and now appeared vast.

A third long row of trestle tables had been set up to contain them all, but Caitlin's heart sank at sight; stacks, piles, and drifts of paper covered with writing, some double and even triple crossed.

Michael put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. "We'll start in the morning, Caitlin."

John was back at the other tables, walking slowly along, looking at the images that Caitlin had roughly organised by topic. "I don't understand. I can't see the connection."

"Not all of them will be clues, John. Some will just be what they appear. Women are taught to paint flowers and baby animals and the activities of daily life." But Caitlin had hoped for something obvious: a map, a drawing of a secret door in a wall, a set of instructions.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would tackle the books and letters. The ghosts had been so insistent. What they wanted must be here somewhere.