by Kirsty Ferry
‘Oh! All I can hear is the clock chiming midnight. I didn’t realise—’
‘No – beneath that. Listen carefully.’
Ailsa tilted her head, and sure enough, beneath the chimes, she heard a different noise – a soft melody, played on a piano: O Holy Night.
Ailsa’s heart began to pound. ‘Ella!’ she whispered, terrified that somehow the sound of her name would chase the girl away. ‘I have to …’
She was almost unaware of Ned releasing her as she ran across the terrace. She flung the door open and ran into the room, her eyes fixed on the piano, her heart thumping fit to burst.
‘Ella!’
But the room was empty, the last note still hanging in the air, as if Ailsa could simply reach out and touch it.
Useless tears sprang into her eyes and she bit her lip, looking around in case Ella, or whoever it was, had scurried away into the shadows and was even now pressing themselves into the corner hoping they wouldn’t be discovered. The atmosphere in the room shifted, as the last chime of midnight died away and Ailsa realised, desperately, that whatever magic might have been there, had faded.
‘Merry Christmas, Ella,’ she whispered. The words sounded odd in the empty room and Ailsa shivered. She turned back towards the French doors. There were still so many questions she wanted to ask Ned.
But when she got to the doors, they were locked firmly and the filmy material that served as curtains hung before them, undisturbed, not even waving in a breeze.
‘Ned!’ This time the name was almost shouted as she grabbed hold of the door and shook it. It remained fastened tight, the key turned in the lock from the inside. Fumbling, Ailsa wrenched the key around and pushed at the door, almost falling out onto the terrace.
The darkness pressed in on her and it was quite clear that she was alone. And even from here, as the lamplight spilled out into a little half-moon on the terrace, there wasn’t a flake of snow anywhere to be seen; there was just damp, wet grass ahead of her, leafless trees, skeletal against the velvet sky, and the sea in the distance, the moonlight dancing across the waves.
Unbidden, Lydia’s voice floated into Ailsa’s mind: Ned likes the view out to sea. I don’t know why. He just says he likes to travel. I don’t even know where he disappears to, he never tells us. But I’m sure you know where he goes.
‘I don’t think I do,’ whispered Ailsa. ‘Not at all.’ She looked around the drawing room, and blinked as it started to melt and fade. The darkness started coming in for her and, before she could do anything, she slid into a little heap on the floor, her eyes closed and her mind swarming with images from the day. The last thing she was aware of before she lost consciousness, was a breeze blowing in from the French doors and something that felt like the brush of angel wings: but it might just as easily have been a kiss as soft as a snowflake.
Chapter Seven
CHRISTMAS MORNING
Present Day
Ailsa woke up in the narrow bed on the third floor and felt like she had the start of a headache. She’d been asleep for only a few hours, and she awoke with her mind churning over what had maybe been a dream, or what had, less likely, been some sort of Christmas reality that was too weird for words.
She was aching in her legs and bum and back, exactly as she would have been if she had indeed been ice-skating by the Abbey pond. But then again, it wasn’t the world’s most comfy mattress and it wasn’t her own bed after all.
But it had been very, very realistic, that dream. She could have sworn she had spent a day with the Carricks. She sat up in bed and looked around the room, seeing the modern furnishings, the desk under the window with her iPad on it and the glow of her mobile phone next to her, a few minutes away from the alarm going off.
On the bedside table was the Becky Nelson Carrick Park book.
‘Of course.’ Ailsa blinked and shuffled over so her feet were on the ground. She’d been chatting to that guy last night and they’d started talking about the Carricks and the Christmases they must have experienced in Victorian times. It had all been on her mind – that and the bloody wedding today—
She checked herself. It was somebody’s special day. She had no right to be grouchy over the fact she had to supervise it all for them on Christmas Day. But God, she could have done with a bit more sleep.
A vision flashed across her mind of standing on the terrace with the dark-haired man – Ned Cavendish. They’d been out there for some reason and she’d heard carols coming from the drawing room so she’d gone back in … She shook her head to clear it and scooped her hair back over her shoulder. That was Tara’s fault, teasing her about the music.
It was all logical, but damn, it seemed real. She’d come straight up to her room after chatting to Ned and fallen into bed exhausted. And now, deep joy, she had to put her work clothes on and smile at a bride and groom, when all she wanted to do was analyse the dream.
Merry Christmas.
But never mind. It was her job, and she was paid to do it. So do it she would, and she’d do it with good grace. Sophie and Gabe were relying on her.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT
The guests were still hanging around in the drawing room, Sophie and Gabe having long since departed to their suite. Ailsa was hovering in the corner, her legs aching, her smile fixed on her face as she nodded a goodnight to everyone and willed them all to leave so she could finish up the last few things and get the room returned to normal.
The only thing was, because she’d been so busy, she’d never had a great deal of time to think about Ned.
The more she considered him, though, the more questions it generated. Had it been real? Had he been real? Had the fact she’d fallen asleep reading the Carrick Park book meant she’d been dreaming the whole thing? His kisses and his touches and the sparks he generated whenever he touched her had seemed real enough. So had the sleigh ride and the ice-skating and the scent of that Christmas tree with the wonky top. She smiled as she remembered it.
She remembered also the mistletoe, hung over that very door there; and, more than any of it, she remembered how his kiss had felt as he took hold of her under the mistletoe bough, and how he had smelled of winter and frost and pine, and how his damp hair had curled under her fingertips, and how warm his skin was against hers.
She blushed furiously and dipped her head. Good grief. He was a wedding guest she’d met briefly last night; that was all, wasn’t it? Although, if she thought very hard about it, had she even seen him today? Her attention had, she admitted, been on Gabe and Sophie; but surely Ned had been somewhere? Hadn’t he?
Perhaps he had just stayed out of her way, hidden in the shadows in case he distracted her – goodness knew he wouldn’t have to do much to distract her. One look, one smile and she’d not know if it was Christmas Day or Midsummer’s Eve. The idea that he was simply a guest and her dreams had been more vivid than usual was what she had kept telling herself and what had carried her through the day.
She shifted position and the stiffness in her muscles told quite a different story – but it wasn’t a story she thought she could believe.
Ned stood on the cliff path near Whitby, overlooking the sea. He was at the ragged semi-circle of bluff, which had crumbled away in that long-ago storm. He leaned his hands on the railings and looked out across the water. The sea was moving like molten mercury, heaving and rolling under the swell of the waves as they crashed onto the rocks and fell back onto themselves.
He had come here far too often, watching and wondering, trying not to let himself dwell on it. If he closed his eyes, he could see it still; the terrified girl in her green riding habit, her chubby little horse as panicked as she was. The lightning blasting across the night sky, the thunder making the very ground shake beneath his feet as he stood in the shadows, helpless, watching her attempt to control the animal.
Then there was Jacob – dark-haired, infatuated and passionately ruthless – appearing before her, jumping off his own horse to try and save her.
‘The cliff path is crumb
ling away, Ella,’ Jacob shouted, ‘and the storm is too bad. It will not be safe. The rain …’
He tried to signal what he meant, but she just shook her head again, close to tears. ‘I cannot do it, Jacob; I cannot understand you. Please let me past. I need to find my husband.’
Adam had gone to Whitby to see his solicitor – something to do with the estate, an appointment he’d arranged on their return from honeymoon. Ella, stubborn, beautiful Ella had insisted on riding with him, but the storm had come in with the evening, and she’d lost him, somewhere in the town. She’d tried to head back to the Park on Blackie, in the pitch dark of a November night. Jacob was there, following her secretively, trying to bring her back safely – and to hell with Adam.
But she’d been panic-stricken and hysterical and it had all gone wrong.
She tried to make the horse skirt around him, but the gap was not very wide and the horse stumbled. Jacob grabbed the reins and pulled the animal towards him. Then he didn’t know exactly what happened. One minute Ella was in the saddle, the next, apparently unseated by the horse’s stumble, she was gone …
Ned dropped his head and stared at the edge of the cliff, inky, shiny black where it sheared away into nothingness. And he knew worse was to come, but he had to let it play out. He knew the sound of the argument would never leave him, the angry, bitter words, cousin against cousin, both men dangerously in love with Ella Carrick.
Adam had Jacob on the ground now; he was taller and stronger, the punches becoming more aggressive. Jacob, pinned down on his back, groped around the area, looking for something to defend himself with, something to get Adam off him. His fingers found a rock and closed over it; he brought the rock up, slamming it into the side of Adam’s head. There was a gasp and Adam’s eyes opened wide. Then he went limp and fell, tumbling away from Jacob and lying motionless in the mud …
Ned swore and slammed his fist into the hand-rail. This was his cross to bear. This. The fact he had to stand back and watch it happen. The fact he couldn’t help them; the fact he had gone there, and broken all the rules by doing so. He raised his head, his cheeks damp – but whether it was tears, sea-spray or snow, he didn’t know and he didn’t care.
‘I know there’s never an easy way!’ he shouted into the darkness. ‘I know it had to happen – but …’ He listened, as if someone would answer him. Nobody did. ‘Why them? Why them?’ Silence answered him and he shook his head. ‘I know. I know.’ His voice broke and he stared at the ground again, his eyes tracing the edge of the cliff, black on black. ‘I shouldn’t have been there, I should have stayed away. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I hoped it would be different.’ He looked up again and trained his gaze on the vast, lonely horizon. ‘But it never is, is it?’
A soft hand laid itself on top of his, with just enough pressure to let him know she was there. He didn’t look in her direction. He didn’t try to see her.
It wasn’t the first time he had felt her near him, but he was surprised she was here and he just nodded. ‘I would have stopped it if I could,’ he told her. ‘You know that, don’t you? Nobody who knew you properly could fail to love you in some way, but you were always his. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He didn’t expect an answer. Could she even hear what he was saying? But apparently, she understood. She squeezed his hand and a kiss as soft as a whisper touched his cheek.
‘So I take it I’m forgiven?’ he asked, smiling crookedly. Another squeeze of his hand confirmed that. ‘I should go to her. I shouldn’t wait, should I? I don’t want to waste any more time.’ He looked up into the clouds as they parted across the moon, marking out a silver channel through the sea. He followed the glittering pathway and saw it led onto the jagged rocks below. He shuddered and looked back up at the moon. ‘I still wonder what you told her that Christmas Eve we were all together, when you were alone with her in the drawing room. She wouldn’t tell me. I know you said something, something in that way you had, something only the two of you understood. I should have learned your language – I might have eavesdropped.’
A breeze wafted past him, and it seemed as if the wind whispered in his ear: I said enough.
‘Enough,’ he repeated. He nodded again. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked along the cliff path. A shadowy figure, darker even than the velvet sky stood patiently. ‘I can see he’s waiting for you. Go to him. You’ve always been his angel and after all it’s Christmas – everyone needs their angels at Christmas.’
There was a breath of wind that may or may not have been a giggle, and he felt the hand lift from his. He waited a few seconds, then looked back at the cliff path; for a moment, the moonshadows shifted and changed and he saw her next to him; saw her tilt her head up and kiss him. Then he took her hand and there was nothing else to be seen, and Ned knew he was alone again.
Chapter Eight
CHRISTMAS NIGHT
The final couple walked out of the room, shouting thanks to Ailsa over their shoulders and she followed them, closing the double doors firmly on the stragglers. Almost immediately, the drawing room seemed to settle and she leaned her forehead on the wood, closing her eyes and just enjoying the silence.
Half of her expected to hear the notes of O Holy Night drifting through the room, but of course that wouldn’t happen. Even if Ella did play Christmas carols as a break from Mozart, she wouldn’t play them when anyone was in the room. She was a notoriously private ghost, at least as far as showing herself to Carrick Park staff was concerned.
Ailsa turned the key in the lock, and walked back into the drawing room. It was almost midnight and Christmas Day was ending. She always felt a little deflated when Christmas Day was over; the magic of Christmas Eve had long since vanished and, to be honest, this Christmas Day had been much like any other working day. Although she loved her job, she couldn’t help feeling just a little bit resentful that she’d had no time to herself. Oh well. It had been better than sitting on her own all day, overdosing on chocolates and Christmas pudding. And maybe next year nobody would want to get married on the twenty-fifth and she’d have somewhere to go and someone to spend Christmas with properly.
She went over to the piano and tutted as she saw that someone had left a champagne glass on it. No – two people had left their glasses and she felt aggrieved on Ella’s behalf. It wasn’t the original piano, but still – it was just laziness. The dying fire flickered gold across the piano and, as the light glinted off another object, she noticed something else.
A soft-bodied, china-faced angel with silver wings lay there, next to a sprig of mistletoe. It looked very much like the one from Lydia’s tree. Ailsa picked the little creature up and turned it in her hands. It must have come off the tree in the hallway – that was clearly how it had found its way into her dream last night. It had to be a dream. It had to be. She sighed as she laid the angel back down, and made to pick up the glasses and put them on a table.
Almost unnoticed, a gentle breeze drifted across the room and Ailsa’s skin prickled.
‘Merry Christmas, Ailsa. I hope you liked your gift. She’s travelled a long way, relatively speaking.’
She spun around, and he was there, in front of the French doors. The filmy material moved a little, but there was no sign that he’d come in that way – no sign of the doors opening, no sign that he’d somehow managed to unlock the main doors and sneak up on her; nothing.
‘Ned!’
The room was suddenly filled with a crackling energy that had nothing to do with the flames leaping up merrily in the fireplace. He took a few steps towards her, and she mirrored his movements. They met, somewhere in the middle of the room and Ailsa felt sure her heart would gallop right out of her body. His eyes met hers, so dark, they were almost black. Golden flecks from the flames reflected in them and his face, half in shadow, looked strained. His back was to the French doors, and, beyond him, she could see the gardens sparkling with a hoar frost, as if someone had tossed a tub of glitter over the shrubbery.
She
reached out a hand and, almost without thinking, laid it on his chest. He felt warm and solid and very much alive.
‘Are you real, Ned?’ she asked, the question sounding silly in the warm, wintery room.
Ned laughed, the sound as soft as a snowflake. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ His face relaxed and his gaze travelled all over her, as if he was checking that she too was real.
‘Because—’ She stopped, thinking how odd it would all sound. Because you just appear and disappear at random; because you took me to Carrick Park in 1864; because you knew the Carrick family; because they said you went there every Christmas. Because you made me think you wouldn’t come back until next Christmas. ‘Just – because,’ she finished weakly.
‘I’m real enough,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t wait until next Christmas to see you again. Maybe I’m going to get into trouble for coming back so soon, maybe I should have stayed away for a little longer, like I was supposed to do; but when you know, you know, don’t you? And you don’t want to have to wait. Sometimes, you just need to grab that moment. I needed to grab that moment with you; I need to have longer with you. I need forever.’ Her hand was still resting on his chest and he covered it with his; then he gently lifted it away and up to his lips. He brushed it with a kiss and pulled her towards him. He tenderly placed his other hand on her waist, so she was close to him – so very close – and she was looking up at him, unable to shift her gaze from his eyes. ‘My life is a bit different to yours. There are places I go; places I need to go to. Places I’ve been and don’t want to go back to.’ His eyes darkened for a moment. ‘I’ve got a job to do and sometimes it’s hard.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ailsa.
‘I mean,’ he replied, smiling sadly, ‘that I can’t always help people. Just like I told you. Sometimes, you just have to let things happen, even though it goes against your very nature. And sometimes you fall for people, just a little bit, and you know that you have to step back. It’s not your decision to make.’
