The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1)

by Dorey, Michelle

  ‘Just one more dangle and tug and he’s mine!’

  ***

  All week long she caught him from the corner of her eye, watching her, dewy-eyed as a twelve-year-old. When she told him at breakfast on Friday that she would be going out with some friends that night to go dancing, he couldn’t hide his unease—envy, actually—despite his effort to appear jovial about it.

  “Now don’t go falling in love with some lake boat captain, Bridey!” he said with a weak grin.

  “Ah, Colonel Kevin, a dance card request is a long way away from a wedding!” she said with a giggle. “I won’t be heading out until later in the evening after the girls are abed.” She made a solicitous face. “‘Tis an important night for one of me girlfriends. May I have the use of the bath this evening?”

  She had always taken her baths during the day when the twins were napping and he was at work. “Uh… of course!” She thought he was actually going to splutter at the idea, knowing she was going to be naked in a bathtub.

  “Thank you, Colonel Kevin,” she said with a smile.

  Later, she came downstairs with her cape over her shoulders. She had a flapper’s feather in her hair, held in place by a satin, burgundy headband. She went to the front door and looked to see the taxicab waiting for her. She opened the door to wave at the driver and went to the parlor where Colonel Kevin was seated, his sherry decanter open and a glass poured. The sherry was again doctored with poiteen for his ‘nightcap.’

  “I’ll be leaving now, Colonel Kevin; I won’t be home too late.”

  “Do I get the opportunity to admire your outfit, Bridey?”

  ‘He likes the bait and is taking his last nibble at it…’

  She pulled her cape about her. “Oh Colonel Kevin, it’s quite daring! It’s fine for dancehall wear, but for your living room…?”

  He sat forward onto the edge of the chesterfield. “I’d like to very much, Bridey…”

  She waited in silence.

  “Please…” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Now don’t be getting any foolish ideas, sir! ‘Tis a party, after all, and it is the Roaring Twenties!” She turned her back to him and undid the buttons holding her cape closed. Spreading it open, she turned around and dropped it at her feet, hearing his gasp suck all the air out of the room.

  It was a rich, burgundy satin overlaid with jet black beads which ended in a series of pointed fringes above her knees. She gave a little spin, the hem of her dress floating out, right to the edge of wanton and dropping back down again. She knew Colonel Kevin caught the briefest glimpse of the black velvet garters holding her silk stockings up.

  The kohl eye shadow and eyeliner, along with mascara made her eyes sparkle like jewels. When she smiled with her wet, red lips she thought he was going to have a stroke.

  He’s taken the bait! Let him run the line while she was away. He’d be ready for reeling in by the time she was back. She’d well and truly set the hook when she got home.

  She bent down and picked up her cape. With a small wave she left the desperate man to stew in his own juices.

  ***

  She came back home in the light of the full moon. As the taxi pulled into the drive, she noted the light was still on in the parlor. She only stayed for three hours—enough to dance up a nice sheen that which the perfume scent she had put on at the start of the evening. She hung her cape on the coat hook along with her clutch purse. She had checked herself in the ladies room mirror at the dancehall just before leaving and had freshened her makeup.

  Entering the parlor, she noted the bottle of sherry was not even half gone.

  “Back so soon, Bridey?” he asked. His tie was off and two buttons undone. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, I did, actually! My girlfriend Daphne is always so much fun!”

  He was watching her carefully now. “Did you have enough dances?”

  She gave a small shrug. “I suppose… but I turned down more offers than I accepted…” She wandered into the room as coy as she could manage.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…” She fingered her evening gloves, pulling them smooth and gazed at the floor. “The men there were rather childish, actually; not very sophisticated.” Her eyes rose. “Not elegant at all.”

  “I see…” He stood and picked up two glasses of sherry. “Share a drink with me, Bridey?”

  “Are you sure, sir?” She smiled as she took it. He stepped behind her and flicked a switch. The Victrola that had been unused for over a year came alive with music.

  “May I have this dance, miss?” He bowed and held out his hand as “Love Me or Leave Me” glided out of the speaker. The big band behind the woman’s singing were strawberries and cream to the ear.

  She took his hand and rested her head on his shoulder as they stepped and swayed in time to the music—not quite a waltz, but slower than a Charleston. His hand glided over her back, up and down, from her waist to the bare shoulders, sending a thrill right down through the soles of her feet into the floor.

  “Ah… Bridey,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, causing another thrill to jolt through her.

  ‘Play this one with care, Bridey! This trout could become Moby Dick in a flash and sink ye for good!’

  She wrapped her fingers through his as the song ended and another began in the same rhythm. She turned her head into his neck, breathing into the hollow of his throat. His own intensified response urged her other hand to caress his neck.

  “Ohhhh…” With a groan, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face up. Their eyes sparked and he bent to kiss her. He kissed her long and deep, and her own knees began to knock. She clasped his head to hers as they clutched at one another.

  Releasing her, he bent down and swept her up into his arms and deposited her on the couch as lightly as he would a child. He dropped to his knees beside her and began to kiss her again.

  When his hands began to wander and fondle, she backed away. Still attached to her mouth, his hand began slipping and sliding on her legs, working up beneath the hem of her skirt.

  She clutched at his face and nuzzled into his neck. “Oh Kevin! Please don’t! I’ve never been with a man!” It took no effort for her eyes to tear up. “This is for a marriage bed! Please Kevin! I’m so tempted now!” As his hand delved higher she gasped. “Please Kevin! Stop! ‘Tis for me husband! I’m to be a man’s wife one day!” she wailed. “I’m to have me husband’s sons!”

  “Have my sons!” he growled. He whipped his head back to look into her eyes. His eyes were black and dangerous. “You’re to be this man’s wife, Bridget!” His voice was a rasp on concrete.

  ‘Yank that line girl! Set that hook, now!’

  She cupped her face in her hands. “Don’t say things ta make me bend to your lust, Kevin Crawley! Be a better man than that!”

  He took her wrists in his hands, enveloping them. “Marry me, Bridget! Be me wife, lass! I’ll make ye as happy as an angel on Christmas morn!”

  Her eyes flew open wide. “Is that your promise of honor, Colonel?”

  “Bridget Walsh, will you marry me and be my wife to our dying day?” His face was smooth and open.

  “Yes! Oh yes Kevin! I’ve loved ye for ages!” She reached up and pulled him to her, making room on the couch as he climbed on.

  ‘Now reel him in quick as ye can!’

  ***

  It would be a year until her killing rage boiled again…

  Chapter 12

  From that first night, Bridey took to Kevin’s bed and didn’t leave it until the day she died. They went to the priest that very week, and were married in a month. Good thing too, because Eamon came into the world eight months after.

  When she told him she was expecting, he took the news rather matter-of-factly. Not the excited schoolboy way he had dealt with Melanie’s last and final pregnancy.

  “Very good,” was all he said when given the news. He either didn’t see or else didn’t care about the
hurt look in her eyes when he then kissed the top of her head. “And if it’s a girl, we’ll be naming her Sarah, and if it’s a boy, his name will be Eamon,” he said.

  “Oh, Kevin? Do I have any say in the matter?”

  “Certainly. You may choose the middle name.”

  She looked up at him levelly. “Eamon’s a fine name. If it’s a girl, we’ll see.”

  As it was, that was a battle which never took place.

  ***

  On the day Eamon was born, the delivery was simple-simon, no complications at all. Bridey felt rather smug as the midwife took her leave. Kevin wanted her to give birth in Kingston General Hospital and she would have no part of such an unnecessary expense. They had only one row over it, when she was in her eighth month. She vanquished him easily; it had to do with ‘woman’s things’ and as far as he was concerned, the less he knew the better he felt.

  “And no doctors either, Kevin! With their knives and their drugs! Women have been birthing bairns throughout history and Mary McGuire’s the finest midwife in the city!”

  Before she left, Mary McGuire had cleaned Bridey up with a sponge bath and brushed her hair. She put on a bit of lipstick before allowing him to enter. When she was ready, she called out to him. He had stationed himself just outside the door.

  She almost burst with pride when she handed Eamon to his father for the first time. He cooed at the bairn and nuzzled into the boy’s face and fingers like he were to eat the baby up, his love was so strong.

  “You’ll be having your hands full now with three of ‘em, Bridey,” he said to her, eyeing her over Eamon’s swaddled body.

  “I’ll be up and about in no time, Kevin, don’t ye be worryin’ over me!” He was kind to be concerned though, and she appreciated it.

  Handing the babe back, he said, “I’m not worried for you, Bridey. You’re as strong as an ox,” he held his hand up seeing the fire in her eyes. “And in as fine fettle as a minx! But darling, three children and this house! We have the money, let’s spend it on some help for you!”

  Eamon babbled for a moment and fell back asleep as she rocked him in her arms. “No!” she said, her voice a tight whisper. “We’ll not be spending your hard-earned money on a worker who wouldn’t do as good a job as I, and work I should be doing in the first place!” She tilted her head at him. “A dollar’s not an easy thing to come by as ye well know.”

  He smiled broadly and sat beside her on the bed. Reaching over, he stroked her hair, still damp with sweat from the birthing. “I’m astonished at how well you’ve come out of it already, Bridey,” he said with wonder in his voice. Neither of them spoke of Melanie’s frailty.

  “Mrs. Dowd will feed and bed the girls down tonight, Kevin, and I’ll be up and about tomorrow.” She looked at him slyly. “Wouldn’t mind getting another bun in the oven as soon as we can, I can tell ye!” She held up her hand. “Not right away, mind ye… but soon enough!”

  He bent over and hugged her. “Let me bring in the girls. They’re dancing a jig wanting to meet their brother.”

  She held the bairn to her face so her scowl remained hidden. ‘Tis only half brother! “In a wee bit, darlin’… I’d like a nap if you don’t mind?”

  Sitting back, he said, “Of course, of course… before they go to bed, perhaps.”

  She leaned over and put Eamon into the bassinet beside the bed. It was one luxury she insisted on having custom made. It was at the exact same height as the bed, with a side which folded down so she could slide the babe in and out without any fuss.

  “Thank you dear, just a nap and the girls can come in then…” she feigned a yawn. “Oh! I must not be quite the ox ye thought!”

  He plumped her pillows and fussed with her comforter before quietly leaving the room.

  When he left, Bridey lowered the side of the bassinet and whispered into Eamon’s ear, “Those two curs will be keepin’ their distance from ye Eamon, don’t ye fear!” With a smile she glided her hand over the snoring form of her first son, then closed up the side and slipped into sleep herself.

  ***

  A week later, she was back to being a wife and a mother to the twins. It was springtime and she had taken Eamon out for a walk. The twins were with her as well.

  “May we push Eamon, Bridey?” asked Agnes, putting her hand on the bar beside hers.

  She flew around and slapped the girl’s mouth. Agnes let out a yelp and Alice gasped.

  “Now, I’ll be tellin’ ye for the once and for the all, ye bloody blaggard! Call me Bridey one more time, one more time and I’ll skin ye both alive!”

  “But… that’s what Papa calls you!” Alice spoke quietly. She had taken her sister’s hand and they were both standing together.

  “I’ve told ye time and again what to call me!” She was furious. What did these two expect, for her to get down on her hands and knees and beg? “Haven’t I? And what has ye’re father said about it?”

  Agnes was rubbing her cheek where she had been hit. “He said we’re to call you Mother.” She dropped her hand and stared defiantly. “But our mother’s dead! You’re not our mother!”

  The defiant wretch! She resisted the urge to slap her again; Kevin would draw the line at bruising. “I’m the only mother the likes of ye will be havin’! And it’s high time ye be giving me the respect!”

  “Agnes,” said Alice quietly, her voice quivering, “we won’t call her ‘Mummy,’ all right?” She tilted her head to her twin, their foreheads touching. “We’ve never called Mummy ‘Mother,’ so it’s all right.” She looked back to Bridey. “Please don’t hit her anymore…” Her face shadowed, “Mother.”

  Bridey turned from one to the other. “And for ye?”

  Agnes’ face was tear streaked, but the anger in her eyes was unmistakable. “I’ll address you properly… Mother.”

  Bridey watched them both. They had better. Now that Eamon was here, their father’s son, their star in his eyes was fading. And would fade more as she brought more children into the world. Though they were but five years old, ‘twas time they began to help with the housework. She’d have them scrub the kitchen floor when they got home.

  “Very well,” she said. “And no, missies, ye leave Eamon to me, is that clear?” She directed them to walk before her so she could keep an eye on them. She’d be giving Kevin a piece of her mind when he came home about his saucy daughters!

  At the end of their outing, she noticed the rosebushes beginning to bloom along the walkway.

  Melanie’s rosebushes.

  She had a head full of memories of Missus La-di-da Crumpet tending the three bushes along the walkway back when she was but the once-a-week washerwoman for this house. Melanie had pointed to them with pride telling how she had planted them herself. As if being able to dig a hole and drop in a root ball was some sort of accomplishment!

  The smell of these bushes would be wafting in the house before long. And when that happened, Kevin would become maudlin and tiresome in grief. He did so the first year after Melanie died, and the new blooms of spring told her that it would happen again.

  Well, she’d be having none of that! She sent the girls to the backyard and went to the small shed at the side which held all of the gardening tools. Without too much effort, she found garden shears and a small bow saw. Still in her dress and hat, she set the brake on the perambulator and set to work.