Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  “What?”

  She grinned over her shoulder at me, skipping down the last few stairs. “You sound just like a mom.”

  I’m telling you, I cried more that day than I have in the last three years. Melody ran down the hallway to where music and laughter drifted out of the opened doors to the ballroom while I pulled a handkerchief from between my boobs and dabbed at my eyes, getting kohl all over it in the process.

  A shrill, high scream pierced the night air, followed by a roar I identified as Max’s.

  “I knew it was too good to last,” I groaned as I hurried to the ballroom as fast as my leg would let me.

  A wave of people erupted from the ballroom, racing down the hallway screaming and yelling, soaked with water and flinging small, silver-gray objects off their heads and shoulders.

  I felt like a salmon swimming upstream trying to push my way through the narrow hallway to get into the ballroom, a comment made particularly apropos when I discovered (after stepping on one) that the silver-gray objects were small fish.

  “Oh, my god, Mrs. Peters was right; it really is raining herring!” I pushed my way into the ballroom, only to be hit on the cheek with a cold, wet fish. The room was emptying quickly, but I could see Max fighting his way to the corner, behind the temple, where the fish seemed to be originating in a spray of water that looked like it came from a fire hose. He was having a hard time since the floor was now slippery with fish. Every time he took a few steps toward the temple, the spray of water turned on him and knocked him to the floor.

  Barbara—screaming nonstop—had taken refuge behind the bass (instrument, not the fish), much to the unhappiness of the bass player, who was trying to drag it away from Barbara’s clutches.

  The other musicians had tipped the silver-and-green couches on their sides to form bunkers and were hiding behind them, hunched protectively over their instruments.

  “It is a sign!” Mrs. Peters stood in the doorway to the gold drawing room, her arms outstretched as she raised her face to the ceiling. “It is a manifestation of the dread spirits of Worston Hall! At long last they have chosen to make their presence known to the unbelievers!!”

  She dropped her arms and spun around, gesturing to someone behind her. “Quickly, all of you, we must record this outstanding example of spirit manifestation. Kendall, the video record. Edward, the spectral analyzer. Who has the infrared scope? There, the apports are manifesting in that corner; you will get the strongest readings there. Alex, quickly, you must bring the atmospheric sensor. The presence of the spirits is sure to register on it.”

  A swarm of serious-miened people laden with all sorts of electronic equipment rushed into the room even as the last of the guests ran out the double doors to the hall. The ghost hunters scattered, each scrambling to record the rain of herring on whatever gadget they held. Sam and Tabby, both sheltered by adjacent pillars, the sound people crouched behind them, were trying to film everywhere at once. Alice ran across the room, slipped on a herring, and went down. Sam dropped the camera and ran out to help her.

  “Where did everyone go?”

  Raven and Shelby trailed the last of the ghost hunters, taking their turn to stand in the doorway of the gold drawing room. I ducked, unable to keep from staring at the girls, as a stream of water and a couple of fish flew past me. They were dressed alike . . . no, wait, the word dressed is misleading. They were almost dressed alike, as harem girls, I was guessing (that or strippers). They wore some sort of fur nipple muffs over their nipples, a heavy chain around their necks, and a couple of chiffon scarves sewn to what looked like a leather G-string.

  “What the hell is happening?” Raven shrieked, stomping her foot and swearing. “Here we go to all the trouble of getting Viking slave costumes, and there’s no one here to see us!”

  Ah, they were Viking slaves. . . . that would explain the furry nipple guards.

  She marched over to where Tabby was filming Sam helping Alice off the slippery floor. “Here, we worked up a dance, She and I did. Shell. Come on, they want to see us do our dance!”

  Shelby shook her head and started backing toward the door.

  “Damn it all to hell! Here, you, film us! We didn’t wash a million pots not to be filmed when we finally look good! Shelby, come on!”

  Shelby turned tail and ran out of the room . . . smack-dab into Palmer.

  “My leg,” he screamed, and toppled to the ground. “I’ve broken my leg.”

  Then the fights went out. The gas lights, that is; there were still a dozen or so candles in the great chandelier that hadn’t been doused by the rain of fish. The light they cast threw an eerie, flickering glow over everything, making elongated shadows that danced and swayed against the walls. The edges of the room were in sepia-toned shadows, dark and forbidding.

  Roger appeared suddenly in the doorway, panting and dragging Kip by his collar. Evidently, Roger didn’t see Palmer lying in his path until the last minute. He tried to jump the butler’s prone body, but Kip jerked back just as he started his leap.

  “My hand!” Palmer screamed as Roger landed on his arm, hitting a high note I hadn’t thought possible. “Now my hand is broken, as well!”

  “What the bloody hell is going on here?” Roger roared, ignoring Palmer to grab Kip again, dragging him forward until the two of them skidded to a halt on the guts of trampled fish. “I leave for one minute to catch this bastard, and all hell breaks loose!”

  Melody ran toward me from the safety of a palm frond that spouted from one of the huge urns. “It’s Uncle Henry,” she said, grabbing me and using me as a shield.

  “What? Henry?” I felt a bit dazed. Henry was responsible for the fish? Why was Roger mad at Kip?

  “He’s behind the big stone thing, throwing fish. Aunt Barbara hates fish. She got bit by one when she was little, and she’s been scared of them ever since.”

  “She got bit by a fish?” I asked. “A shark, do you mean?”

  “Matthew, hold him; he’s our saboteur.” Roger shoved Kip toward Matthew, who dropped his sound equipment to grab Kip’s arms.

  “I only did what should have been done,” Kip snarled, jerking his arm from Matthew’s hold. “Your time is over, old man. The fiasco here will just prove to the studio that they need a younger man to replace you.”

  Max must have finally reached Henry just then, because there was a horrible scream, followed by Max’s bellow.

  “It’s a man,” one of the ghost hunters shouted, holding up his digital ionizer to scan Henry as Max dragged him around from the back of the temple. “At least I think it’s a man. The guy dressed as a knight is.”

  “No!” Mrs. Peters screamed, and lunged at Henry. “No, it can’t be! It’s the ghosts. It’s the spirits of Worston Hall coming forth to lesson the unbelievers! It can’t be him—he’s nothing.”

  “Kip is the saboteur?” I asked Roger.

  “Caught him turning off the gas,” Roger grunted as he stormed by Melody and me. “I thought it was him all along, but didn’t have any proof.”

  “I bet that will come as news to all the servants you interrogated for two days,” I said. Roger ignored me, his eyes fixed on another target.

  Max dragged Henry over to where Barbara had climbed on top of the couch bunker and was now dancing with anger, screaming what she was going to do to Henry when she had him alone.

  “I told you it was Uncle Henry,” Melody said, coming around to my side. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I think he’s gone crackers.”

  “I’d say that was an apt statement.”

  Henry, who had squirmed out of Max’s grip, stood shouting and gesticulating at Barbara. Max started over to where Melody and I stood, making a sudden detour when Roger finally figured out who was to blame for ruining the ball.

  “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the bloody bastard! Let go of me, Max, I just want to kill him. Just a little. Not a lot, but hell, man, you see what he’s done! Just let me kill him a little bit.”

  “Can someon
e ring the hospital for me?” Palmer appeared in the doorway, leaning on one of my crutches, his left hand cradled against his chest. “I believe I’m going to faint.”

  He staggered over to the quartet and tried to faint on them, but they pushed him back. The two women musicians stood up, now that the rain of fish was over.

  “What do you mean you can’t film me adequately in this light? I can see just fine! Now, look, we have this dance. It’s really cool. See? I do this, and then I bend over backward. . . . Hey! You’re not filming we—”

  “It is the spirits; it has to be them. They possessed that man’s mind, made him the tool of their will. I know. They spoke to me. They told me things—”

  “This doesn’t look too ghostly to me,” Matthew the sound guy yelled over to Mrs. Peters as he dragged a tall metal drum out from behind the temple. “Looks like he rented a power washer and hooked it up to a drum full of dead herring.”

  Roger stopped pleading with Max at the sound of a metal drum being scraped over a polished, wet, hardwood floor. He started running toward Matthew, sliding every other step, waving his hands and shouting. “Stop, you fool, stop! I have to pay damages! You’re tearing up the floor! Do you have any idea how much money that will cost me to repair?”

  The violinist played a couple of notes to see if her strings got wet, then suddenly started in on a Celtic jig. Sam and Alice looked at each other, smiled, then began dancing, laughing as they twirled around in a circle. The viola picked up the tune and joined in.

  “Is it safe to come in now?” Teddy asked, the male servants peering in around him.

  “Sure, come and join the fun. I think there’s some champagne left, if you want it.”

  “My back!” Palmer cried as he slipped on a fish and hit the floor.

  “My floor!” Roger wailed, then sat down on a broken pillar and started sobbing into his hands.

  “Oooh, look at Raven, will ya? Doesn’t she look hot!” Bret asked, and ran over to where she was performing an odd sort of belly dance for Tabby’s camera.

  “You don’t understand. I spoke with them. They swore they were coming,” Mrs. Peters sobbed to her husband as he gently led her out of the room, murmuring soft words, keeping a protective arm around her. “It’s all her fault, it’s all the American’s fault. They don’t like Americans.”

  “I like Americans,” Max said, smiling and holding out his arms for us. Melody ran to him, hugged him, then cuddled up against one side.

  “What are you waiting for? Dad has two arms,” she said.

  I frowned and shook my finger at her. “No. I absolutely forbid you to do that. Don’t you dare be nice to me, because then, oh, man, I’m doing it again.”

  “She cries a lot, doesn’t she?” Melody asked Max as he wrapped his free arm around me, pulling me tight against his side while I sniffled into his neck. “Do you think she’s going to always be doing that?”

  “I think so. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I guess we’ll just have to learn to live with it,” Max said.

  I stepped on his toe. Hard.

  He laughed and kissed Melody on the forehead. “Up to bed with you, Lady Melody. Tomorrow we go home, back to televisions and computers and all the wonders of the modern age.”

  “Yay!” She did a little jig, grinned at us, then ran off to her room.

  “What about me, Your Grace?” I asked, turning until I was flush against him, my hands sliding up his surcoat to his shoulders, then up farther to the black silk of his hair. I teased his lips with my own. “Are you going to order me to bed, as well?”

  He growled into my mouth, then scooped me up in his arms, ignoring my startled “Max!”

  “Tabby, did you get that?” he asked, turning in the doorway to face the ballroom.

  “I did,” she answered, giving us the thumbs-up.

  “Good. Proof positive, my beloved duchess, that I can lift you without grunting.”

  I kissed his chin, then his nose, then teased his lips open until I could taste him. “I’m not sorry to be leaving, but I have to say, I’m going to miss everyone.”

  We surveyed the remains of the party. The floor was awash in fish carcasses, the walls dripping where the hose had blasted them. The few pieces of furniture that had been in the room were lying around topsy-turvy. The remaining candles flickered wildly as beneath them Barbara and Henry argued at the top of their lungs, Henry punctuating his comments by throwing fish at Barbara, who promptly shrieked and took refuge behind a pillar. Kip twisted and turned to evade Matthew, dodging behind the urns in a desperate attempt to escape. Teddy sat on the fallen ruins of the temple, holding Roger while the latter sobbed into his dress suit. At the opposite end of the room, Palmer was being assisted to his feet by Shelby and the cook, Mrs. Billings, while before them Sam twirled a giggling Alice as Alec and Thom danced with Easter and Honey. Bret and Raven clutched each other the dim light of the corner, snogging for all they were worth. Michael and Sally were kicking aside fish, trying to clear the center of the room.

  Max snorted and turned, walking carefully down the black hallway. The main hall and the side rooms were full of party guests, all of them talking at once, asking questions, demanding explanations, some laughing, others outraged. At the foot of the stairs Ellis and Reg stood, holding oil lamps and trying to bring order to chaos.

  The voices rose when the guests saw Max. At my urging he set me onto my feet, then turned to face the crowd. He looked them over carefully, then put his hand to his chest and made a formal bow. “Roger will be happy to answer any and all of your questions. He’s in the ballroom, which I assure you is no longer raining herring.”

  There was a stampede as party guests hurried down the hallway back to the ballroom.

  Max took an oil lamp from Reg and turned to me, gesturing toward the stairs. “My duchess, shall we retire for the night?”

  Behind Max, Ellis stood watching me, her eyes unfathomable for a minute, then miracle of miracles, she smiled.

  I took Max’s arm, looking into his warm blue eyes, marveling that I had found such a wonderful man to love. “Yes, my darling duke, we shall.”

  KATIE MACALISTER is an American author with a passion for mystery, a fascination with alpha males, and a deep love of history. She as worked as a bird skeleton cleaner, a wave machine solderer, a Fortran programmer, and a sales assistant for Harrods. She lives with her husband and two dogs, and also writes for the young adult market as Katie Maxwell. Katie welcomes e-mails from readers at Katie@Katiemacalister.com.