Rebecca's Ghost

by Marianne Petit

  Dusk blanketed the entrance in a shroud of darkness, save for the candlelight, from the chandelier above, casting a warm glow to the hall’s polished wood floors.

  The soft melodic sound of music floated lightly through the air, breaking the silence of his otherwise quiet home with such resonance, that he froze in the doorway, too stunned to move.

  Music, lyrical yet at the same time eerie, seeped through the walls; crept up from the multi colored carpets and surrounded him like a misty fog. The high-pitched strain grabbed him with such a severe hold he felt as though he was being held, rooted to his spot like a prisoner.

  A charged tension surged through him

  Tyler shot him a nervous glance, then darted down the hall and disappeared.

  Philip swallowed the large lump forming in his throat. His mind drifting, he stared over the banister toward the music room, as the soothing melody carried him back to another time. A time when he had been happy and his life had had meaning; when his whole future had been planned; when he’d had a future.

  The thought brought his senses back to reality.

  “Damn!”

  Every member of his staff knew ‘twas forbidden to unlock that harpsichord.

  “Who dare disregard my orders?” His booming voice echoed through the empty hall.

  He turned on his heel and bound past the stairs. With a few quick strides he charged up to the closed doors; to a room he hadn’t been in since Rebecca’s death.

  Without further thought he grabbed the two gold handles and thrust open the doors. Wood crashed with a resounding thud against the inner walls.

  “Who the hell gave you permission to--”

  Elizabeth sat at the harpsichord.

  Abruptly she stopped playing and stared at him, her long, slender fingers still resting atop the ivory keys.

  Her luminous eyes widened.

  The expression on her face, surprise mingled with fear, sent a stab of guilt to his gut.

  “Mary said ‘twould be permissible for me…”

  In spite of his anger, captivated by the picture of perfection she presented, he stared wordlessly.

  The room glowed with shimmering candlelight. Flickering light played across her face, illuminating the soft creamy texture of her skin, of her long slender neck and porcelain shoulders. The amber flames cast a brilliant luster on the ringlets of her silvery hair. Loose strands fell softly against her temples and cheeks.

  She was radiant. Unbelievably beautiful. All soft and warm, bathed in candlelight like an enchanting creature from another realm.

  Her expression clouded with uneasiness she rose from her seat, slammed the harpsichord shut, and stood facing him.

  “I-I shouldn’t be here without your permission. I…”

  Philip paled. “From whom did you acquire that gown?” His feet pounded the floorboards as he stormed across the room.

  “If the dress offends you… I had nothing else to--” She wrung her hands together nervously. “If I have overstepped my boundaries…”

  “It seems, once again, I am ill equipped to have my demands carried out. That garb, which I distantly recall ordering the removal of from this premise…” He knew he was being unreasonable. “…offends me.”

  But the sight of her standing there in his wife’s clothing sent a pang to his heart.

  “Then I shall--”

  He raised his hand to silence her.

  The parlor had a mysterious quality to it. An odd sense, like that day in the woods, hovered around him like a swarm of mythical spirits, soothing his overwrought nerves, despite his reluctance to let it.

  ‘Twas not her fault, he realized.

  “My outburst is unforgivable.”

  ‘Tis Rebecca’s fault. Rebecca’s deceit. Rebecca’s image smothering my tolerance.

  Elizabeth reached for the brass key. “If I have erred, I am devoutly apologetic.” She placed the key in the lock. “I do not wish to cause dismay.” Her fingers shook.

  A stab of guilt nipped his breast.

  “‘Tis I who should apologize.” He placed his hand over her outstretched fingers gently restraining them from locking the instrument.

  Heavy lashes flew up and she stared wide-eyed.

  “My words were spoken in haste.” His anger diminished, his senses numb, he studied her beautiful face.

  Perhaps, by allowing her this small pleasure, they could become better acquainted.

  Besides, at this moment, how could he forbid her anything?

  “I give you leave to play whenever it pleases you.”

  Her warm hand beneath his brought a familiar sense of awareness and a flash of desire long ago pushed aside. A surge of heat shot through his fingertips. The muscles of his forearm hardened beneath his sleeve.

  Desire? What in the devil’s name has come over me?

  To his relief, she jerked her hand from his before he had the chance to pull away.

  Is it fear, or attraction, that makes her fingers tremble?

  He carefully scrutinized her face for an answer.

  She blushed and lowered her gaze. Her lips quivered.

  She felt the connection as well.

  He glanced away, annoyed.

  What manner of madness is this?

  He raked his fingers through his hair.

  Tension built, throbbing his temples.

  Desire? Nay! Familiarity. Nothing more. ‘Tis Rebecca’s room. The thought sent a familiar pang of loss to his gut, which surprised him. Rebecca’s instrument. Surely this would account for his lack of judgment.

  “Please.” He motioned for her to take a seat and in spite of her obvious apprehension she gracefully complied.

  A clock chimed breaking the sudden uncomfortable silence that had fallen across the room.

  Philip drummed his index finger against the harpsichord’s hood. “You must understand. I was completely taken aback to hear music in my house after all these years.”

  Lost in memories of happier years, he slowly caressed the harpsichord, his fingers brushing against the gold embossed mahogany.

  He glanced up and searched Elizabeth’s face, trying to read her expression.

  She was so young. Probably about the same age he'd been when he had married Rebecca, eighteen or so. Blast it all how the years had slipped by.

  He glanced down at this favorite jacket, which suddenly felt outdated and worn.

  Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

  Compassion filled her eyes. “How long has the mistress been since she--”

  “Six years.”

  She reached out to touch him, paused, then drew her hand away.

  An odd twinge of disappointment centered in his chest.

  “‘Twas a long time ago,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  He didn’t want to speak on Rebecca; or think about her; or agonize over her death. All these years he had blamed himself. Guilt had been his companion through days of nothing more than merely existing. She had been his last joy.

  “Tell me about the mistress.” Elizabeth’s soft voice slid like warm brandy into his soul, clouding his thoughts, breaking down his defenses.

  He studied his fingers a moment.

  What could he say? That he had killed her as surely as if he had plunged a knife into her heart?

  Their gaze met.

  Despite his reluctance, an unknown force drew him into her confidence and the minutes ticked by as he spoke of his past.

  “She didn’t survive the ordeal of childbirth. And the child…” Filled with conflicting memories, Philip took a deep breath to quell the anguish searing his chest.

  “Your pain assails my heart. Perhaps I should not have-”

  “Nay.” His gut tightened. “A week after the burial, I left Virginia on a ship bound for England.”

  He stared blankly into the space before him, recalling that voyage and Mary’s plea: “And what of the little one? He’ll be needin’ a father.”

  He hadn’t thought about the child th
en, a child whose resemblance to Rebecca was unnerving, only his grief.

  Looking at boy was like staring at her image and brought back memories, at times, too difficult to bear. So, he’d kept him away, only to find each morning brought back the demons of the day before. Yes, he carried that guilt as well, he thought soberly.

  “I came back two years later and fulfilling my responsibilities I threw myself into the one thing left that gives me pleasure, my work.”

  Thank god, Tyler had overseen his tobacco crop and shipments. If not for his trusted friend, and confidant, much revenue would have been lost.

  “When one gets so involved, in what one loves, it lessens the pain.”

  The sympathy in her tone set his troubled thoughts on edge. What did she know of pain?

  His lips puckered with annoyance, and why in the devil’s name had he spilled his guts to her? She couldn’t possibly understand how he felt; know of the many sleepless nights he spent wandering the halls.

  After their first had died, the doctor had suggested they have no more children only he hadn’t listened.

  His shoulders slumped. Nay, she could never understand, and he didn’t need her pity.

  The tapping of his foot reverberated through a moment of awkward silence.

  He spread his hands flat against the harpsichord and pushed himself away. “You should wear blue more often the color compliments your eyes.” He captured her gaze with his.

  A sensuous light passed between them.

  Casually he moved before her.

  Under his steady stare, her breath quickened as did his pulse. ’Twas hard to remain coherent standing so close to her.

  Her breasts rose and so did his growing yearning. Her catlike spheres suddenly turned more golden than green.

  By the blood of Satan, if he let himself, he could get lost in their huge depths.

  Her gaze darted as though she searched for a way to run from his presence.

  He hated seeing that fear and wondered why; then remembering the bruise now faded from her cheek, he stepped back allowing her room to breathe.

  “I shall send for a seamstress. You shall have many beautiful gowns of your own to choose from.” His voice broke with a huskiness that surprised him.

  What was it about this wee bit of woman that bewitched him so?

  “‘Tis most kind and overly generous of you.”

  For a brief second her face sparkled with delight, then the expression fell as though a sudden horrible thought had occurred.

  “But I-I must refuse. I am already in your debt.” Her chin lowered.

  Gently he tipped her face back toward him. “Nay. ’Twill be my pleasure,” he whispered softly.

  Seeing no fear in her eyes, he raised his finger to her cheek despite the voice shouting within reminding him of his foolishness.

  He touched her lips with his thumb. Their velvety softness like liquid fire beneath his gentle rubbing ignited a flame deep within him.

  She gasped in surprise and jerked back.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. The sweet, delicate fragrance of lavender like an aphrodisiac filled every fiber, every pore of his body.

  He tried to fight it; but an aching need to kiss her buried itself deep within in him.

  It had been so long, so long since he had this sense of desire.

  ***

  Faint, unsteady, Elizabeth’s breath caught in her lungs.

  He was going to kiss her.

  The touch of his warm fingers, upon her lips, set her heart to a rampant race.

  Dear Lord, was this the payment he expected for offering to dress her in lavish gowns? The thought made her queasy. What more did he expect?

  The smell of liquor fanned her face; a smell that dredged up memories of her near violation.

  A knotted suffocating ache took root in the base of her throat. Fear, a familiar feeling, rooted her feet to the floor.

  All balled up, her mind reeled. Her mouth felt dry, her skin clammy

  Wordlessly, he stared at her then abruptly stepped back.

  Gone was the warmth that moments ago had mellowed his eyes. Now two globes of blue-white ice pierced the distance between them.

  Her heart raced. What cause had he to be angered?

  Slowly he began to raise his hand.

  Instinctively she shielded her face with her arm in protection and gasped.

  The room spun around her. The walls seemed to close in from all sides.

  The movement of his hand continued toward his head.

  “Elizabeth, I--” He rifled his fingers through his hair, then took a step toward her.

  The space before her began to blur. Faint. She felt light- her legs crumbled beneath her.

  Vaguely aware of strong arms wrapping around her, her lids fluttered as the sensation of being lifted filtered through her mind.

  When she opened her eyes, she lay on a settee.

  Philip wiped his perspiring brow with his handkerchief “Good Lord! How do you fare?”

  Focusing her gaze, she stared up at him.

  Anxiety replaced the anger from his eyes. An anger that had come from nowhere and still confused her.

  She forced a smile.

  “Do you think me such a monster?” A muscle in his jaw flicked tensely.

  Elizabeth studied his face, watched the torn conflicting emotions play across his chiseled features. “Perhaps I am not as well as I had thought.”

  What a fool she’d been thinking he’d strike her.

  Curse you guardian.

  She raised her fingers to her bruised cheek.

  Lord Ablingtons gaze swept over her face speculatively. “My actions are inexcusable.”

  ‘Twasn’t he who had frightened her–‘twas the past’s ugliness

  “You’ve caused me no distress,” she managed to say.

  He cocked his head toward her, as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, as though he didn’t believe her. “I did not mean to frighten you so. ‘Twas inexcusable of me.”

  She struggled to sit, but he reached beneath her and scooped her up in his strong arms. Panic sliced through her. Her body tightened. “Nay! Your Lordship.”

  “You are not well.” Despite her plea, he carried her across the room. “And ‘tis obvious you are still weakened by the fever. I shall bring you to your chambers.”

  The only fever, she felt, was the un-welcomed fever of inexplicable longing coursing through her veins.

  “My lord, I assure you I can walk. The dizziness has passed.”

  She could feel the fast rhythm of his heart against her side and wondered if he felt the slamming of hers as strongly as she did.

  “Nay. ’Twill never do, in your weakened condition, for you to falter and break your slender neck on my stairs.”

  His warm breath fanned her face and heat crept up her body. ‘Twas impossible to steady her erratic pulse.

  Leaving the room, he carried her up the staircase two steps at a time.

  “My Lord, I am too heavy, please…”

  “Nonsense. You protest too much.”

  With a swift kick to the slightly opened chamber door, he strode purposely over to her bed.

  A wave of apprehension swept through her as he placed her down.

  Staring into his eyes, she prayed there would be no desire, no lust in their blue depths. Only his concern gazed down at her.

  She sighed, a breath of ease.

  Without a word, he reached over to the spare quilt at the foot of the bed and began to draw it up toward her. His hand only inches away from her ankles, he paused for a moment then he straightened.

  The blanket slipped from his fingers.

  “I shall send Mary up to see to you.” He turned and hurried from the room as though her nearness disturbed him.

  And Elizabeth, although relieved to be alone, felt suddenly lonely without his presence.

  Chapter Seven

  Her hands tucked under her head, Elizabeth stared at the gold canopy above her
and for the second time that morning recalled the events of the previous night.

  “Arrah! I fainted.”

  Mozart slept in the crook of her arm.

  “I’ve never been such a wilting flower. I cannot fathom it.”

  Had it been fear or the overwhelming awakening of emotions so new to her that her body had shut down and her mind refused to acknowledge them?

  “Nay.” She shook her head.

  Mozart yawned.

  “His Lordship said my weak condition had been the culprit.”

  And she wholeheartedly agreed. For Lord knows her lapse of consciousness had nothing to do with the fact that his body had been pressed so close to her they‘d felt as one; or that his handsome face had been only inches from hers and the desire to kiss him had made her lips full with anticipation.

  “Kiss him?”

  Her sharp tone started her cat. He jumped up and arched his back.

  “Lord. I’ve gone quiet mad.”

  She rolled over, dug elbows into the mattress and rested her face in her hands.

  That she could feel that way toward a man, any man, and not feel disgust shocked her. Had she forgotten so soon how a man’s lust could turn ugly?

  Still…

  She glanced over to Mozart, who had made himself comfortable beside her.

  She reached out and stroked his fur.

  He purred.

  “You should have seen the way he scooped me up as though I weighed nothing and carried me to these chambers…”

  The remembered thoughts brought a flush to her cheeks.

  Mozart lifted his paw and meowed.

  “Don’t stare at me like that. I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his lordship to keep from falling. And I can assure you, my overly heated person was a reaction from my fainting spell, nothing more.”

  So why was that same feeling now spreading across her body like the morning's warming rays?

  Confusion rocked through her. She frowned.

  Memories of her assault always present in her mind, she should have felt repulsed by his touch. Yet strangely enough, she rather fancied the way his fingers had felt on her hair, on her lips.

  What could she possibly be thinking?

  She buried her head in her pillow. Shame scorched her cheeks.

  What evil demons possessed her mind and body?

  Men were like vultures who left but an empty shell, stripped women of their dignity, made them feel dirty. Hadn’t her guardian taught her that?