by Angie Ray
Jeremy opened his fist to reveal an earwig on his palm. It immediately tried to escape and he closed his hand again.
“An excellent specimen,” said Bernard. “Forficula auricularia if I’m not mistaken.”
“Fascinating,” Margaret murmured. Of course he would be interested in an insect.
Still not smiling, Jeremy was about to escape when he caught sight of Aunt Letty coming down the stairs. Margaret stared. The grey wig was gone.
“Aunt Letty! Aunt Letty!” Jeremy shouted, his small intense face brightening a little, although he still didn’t smile. “I have a twitchbell!”
“Do you, dear? How wonderful. Cecilia and Geoffrey, I’m so glad you’re back.”
Aunt Letty was close enough now that Margaret could see thin, spiky black and white hair that barely covered her scalp. Where was the wig?
“Aunt Letty, could I put it in your jar and keep it?” asked Jeremy.
Aunt Letty drew back a little, hugging the jar. “Certainly not!”
“Come, let’s not stand here,” said Cecilia. “Let’s all go in the parlor. Although, come to think of it, we’ll need more chairs. Gibbons!” she bellowed.
Gibbons silently appeared. “Yes, Mrs. Barstow?”
“Please bring a few more chairs into the parlor and have a servant take our luggage up. Oh, and bring in some tea also.”
“I will join you in a minute,” said Aunt Letty. “There’s something I need to discuss with Cook.”
“Can’t it wait?” asked Cecilia.
“Er, no, my dear. I’ll only be a minute.”
Cecilia looked at her suspiciously. “Aunt Letty, you haven’t been up to your old tricks have you?”
Aunt Letty looked nervous. “Why, whatever do you mean, dear?”
“I mean potatoes, that’s what.”
“Oh, well....”
“Miss Westbourne, have you been eating potatoes for every course at dinner?”
Aunt Letty threw a pleading look at Margaret.
“Why, ah, let’s see....”
“Never mind, I know it’s true. I can see I’m going to have to have a word with Cook.”
“Now Cecilia, don’t get upset. It wasn’t Cook’s fault. I thought it was time for her to have a little visit to her family. The poor woman hadn’t seen them in over six months. Naturally I had to hire someone else temporarily while she was gone. And could I help it if she likes to make potatoes? I meant to say something to her, but it kept slipping my mind. I will do it now, though.”
“I’ll go with you, Aunt Letty,” said Jeremy. “Maybe Cook will have some tarts or something. I’m very nearly starving.”
With a guileless smile, Aunt Letty slipped away, Jeremy in tow.
“Honestly, that boy. And as for Aunt Letty, she is impossible.” Cecilia shook her head, then looked around at the others. Her bright gaze rested on her husband’s face for a moment. “Darling, would you like me to see if your room is ready, yet?”
Geoffrey shook his head, and after only the barest hesitation, Cecilia nodded, then smiled brilliantly at Margaret and led the way to the parlor. The ladies sat on the sofa, while the gentlemen took the chairs.
“I suppose she has been wearing that awful wig, too,” continued Cecilia. “I specifically forbade her to wear it when we found the nest of mice in it, but she has only grown more sly. Would you believe she puts it on when she goes to bed?” Cecilia shook her head. “I hope Bernard warned you about Aunt Letty, Miss Westbourne, before he asked you to marry him.”
“He did say she was eccentric.” She glanced at Bernard who was talking quietly to Geoffrey, paying no attention to his sister. She heard him mention Whitehall, and saw Geoffrey nod his head.
“Eccentric! Ha! That doesn’t begin to describe Aunt Letty. I daresay you’ve noticed that jar she carries around?”
“Why, yes. I’ve been wondering what is in it.”
“A religious relic of some sort, I believe. That sort of thing was very popular in the last century, you know. Tricksters sold items supposedly belonging to saints, claiming they had magical powers. Knowing Aunt Letty, it’s probably a potato from Saint Patrick’s garden.” Cecilia sighed. “Did she tell you about Phillip’s ghost too?”
Margaret averted her gaze and swallowed. “A bit.”
The other woman rolled her eyes. “All that nonsense about him whispering to her? You poor girl. You’ve truly gotten the full benefit of Aunt Letty’s eccentricities. Ghosts! What will she come up with next? I hope she won’t put you off marrying Bernard.”
“Oh no. That is, she is very sweet.”
“It’s good you think so, because Bernard positively dotes on her. He visits her frequently. We visit as often as we can, too. She needs a keeper.”
“How nice.” Margaret couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You live with your husband’s parents?”
“Yes, in Cumberland. Ever since Geoffrey lost his leg and had to leave the army.”
Margaret glanced at Geoffrey and saw that he had heard his wife’s words. A bleak look crossed his face.
The door opened and the butler came in with the tea tray. Three more servants followed behind with chairs. Hard on their heels came Aunt Letty and Cousin Winifred.
Introductions were made and refreshments passed around. Cecilia kept up a lively patter of talk, managing within a few minutes to get everyone on a first name basis, even Bernard. “Don’t be so stuffy, Bernard,” she told him when he tried to protest the informality.
In contrast to his wife’s gregariousness, Geoffrey seemed almost morose. He contributed very little to the conversation; whenever Margaret happened to glance at him, he would be staring broodingly into the fire. There was something rather intimidating about him, she thought. Although why she would think so when she had successfully dealt with a ghost, was beyond her.
Thinking of Phillip made Margaret lose track of the conversation around her. As she remembered how she had talked back to him, she felt slightly faint. Where had she found the courage to speak as she had? She was fortunate he hadn’t struck her down with a lightning bolt or something. But somehow, in spite of his loud words and threatening pose, she must have sensed he would not harm her. Perhaps because of the gleam of laughter she had glimpsed in his eyes; or the weariness she had heard in his voice; or even the confusion in his expression when he stared at his glowing hand.
Would he appear again tonight?
The thought hovered in the back of her mind all through the delicious dinner--not a single potato!--and afterwards, when everyone sat in the back parlor and Cecilia told stories of Jeremy’s antics. When the group finally broke up, it was close to midnight.
Margaret walked slowly to her room, pausing at the door.
“Goodnight, Margaret,” Cousin Winifred whispered as she slipped into the neighboring room.
“Goodnight,” Margaret murmured, her mind barely aware of the other woman. Inside her own room, the beat of her pulse quickened.
Would he appear again tonight?
Her nightgown was lying on the bed, and as Yvette started to undo the long row of buttons on her dress, Margaret remembered how he had stood beside the bed, leaning over her, watching her with that dark gaze. She shivered a little. Would he come tonight? Or was he perhaps already here, waiting for the maid to go, watching as Yvette....
Margaret pulled away from the maid, clutching the neckline of her dress together.
“Wait, Yvette. I would like a dressing screen, please.”
The maid stared at her as if she had gone mad. “A screen? Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Are you feeling all right, miss?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Please go find a screen. There must be one somewhere in this house.”
There was, and half an hour later, two footmen carried it in and placed it in the middle of the floor. The mythological scene painted on the screen didn’t match the room’s decor, but Margaret didn’t care.
“Over in that corner, please
.”
After the footmen left, she stepped behind the screen and looked over the top at the place where Phillip had stood last night. Satisfied, she beckoned Yvette to come behind the screen.
The maid rolled her eyes a bit, but kept silent, much to Margaret’s relief.
After Yvette left, Margaret quickly climbed under the concealing covers, debating whether or not to leave the lamp lit. Perhaps he would not come if there was a light in the room. But then she would not know if it truly had been a figment of her imagination.
Making up her mind, she leaned over and blew out the lamp. Light still filled the room, and she blew again before she realized that the lamp was not lit.
He was there.
Chapter Six
Phillip stared down at the woman, Margaret Westbourne. With her thick, golden brown hair cascading about her shoulders, she looked remarkably beautiful. If he were in the mood to appreciate it, which he wasn’t. She was staring back, her brilliant blue eyes wide with a look of half-fright, half-fascination. He supposed it was a natural expression for someone seeing a ghost, but he certainly did not care to have it directed at him.
But then, he did not particularly care for being a ghost.
He could scarce believe it even now; he had meant to think on it, after leaving her presence, but in some strange way time seemed to have passed without him being aware of it. As if he had been in a deep, dreamless sleep. Or as if he were only alive to this woman.
“So, Miss Westbourne,” he said coldly, folding his arms across his chest. “I am forced to believe you are correct. I am a ghost.”
“I am naturally delighted that you do not doubt my veracity,” she said, her voice equally cold. “Will you please leave now? It isn’t proper for you to be here.”
She tilted her chin in the impudent manner he had noticed before, but this time he felt no amusement, only anger and confusion. He wanted some answers. Now.
“Virtuously said,” he sneered. “I would willingly relieve you of my company, but first we must clear up one small matter. Why am I here?”
“How should I know?” she said, her voice rising. “You are the one that keeps coming here and scaring me half to death.”
She did not look scared. The single row of lace on the prim cotton nightgown covering her breasts fluttered a bit with her rapid breathing, but it was clearly from indignation, not fear. “You must know something since it is to you that I appear. Did you summon me with black magic?”
“Certainly not! I know nothing about you! Appear to Aunt Letty or Bernard if you have any questions.”
He frowned, considering her suggestion. “I don’t think I can,” he said slowly. “Appear to someone else, that is.”
“Why not?” she asked crossly.
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he tried to pin down the source of his feeling. He could feel the connection his mind made to hers. There was an openness, a reaching, that he sensed he could not find elsewhere. “There is something about you. Your mind is extraordinarily receptive.”
“It most certainly is not! My mind is completely closed. I mean, I don’t even believe in ghosts! I just want you to go away!”
“I don’t think I can,” he said again. “There is something I must do.” What was it? The answer hovered barely beyond his consciousness, teasing and flirting like any woman. He struggled to capture it, but it flitted away, much to his frustration. “Dammit, I can’t seem to remember, but there has to be a reason I am here.”
“You are probably here to atone for your sins,” she snapped. “Or perhaps to avoid your just reward in the afterlife.”
“Hell, you mean?” In spite of his frustration, he felt his lips twitch with laughter. By God, the vixen had a sharp tongue to her. Didn’t she know it was dangerous to look at a man like that, her lips all pursed up, inviting any red-blooded male to kiss away that primness? He was tempted to take that invitation, only....
“Very likely this is hell. What could be worse than being in a woman’s bedroom and not being able to do anything about it?”
He watched with interest the way she stiffened, the very picture of offended propriety.
“I am certain God will mete out a more fitting punishment.”
“What more fitting? Most of my sins involved a woman’s bed.”
“I think the Lord will want to punish you for the small matter of murdering your wife.”
Phillip’s amusement died a rapid death. “Murdering my wife! Do you mean Alicia? What absolute rot!”
He began to stride about the room, hands clasped behind his back, a deep frown on his face. This was too much. What the devil was going on? Could God truly be punishing him, as the girl suggested? Certainly he had done a few things God probably did not approve of, but he’d never murdered his wife.
He stopped once more by her bed. She watched him with wary eyes, which for some reason, made him angrier than ever. “How do you know this? You said you know nothing about me.”
“I only know the little that Aunt Letty told me.”
“Who is this Letty?”
“Leticia Chetwynd. Your first wife’s sister, I believe.”
“Letty!” He smiled, a picture of a gamine, impish face flashing into his mind. “Little Letty! She’s still alive?”
“Very much so.”
“So, what did she have to say?”
“She said you were accused of murdering your second wife and were hanged for it seventy-eight years ago.”
He stilled, staring off into the darkest corner of the room, half-remembered emotions surging through him. His hand rose to his throat, partly in horror, partly in denial. Jumbled puzzle-piece memories swirled in his brain, defying his attempts to connect them into a comprehensible picture. He concentrated harder, forcing the pieces to align themselves, forcing them to come together, even though part of him didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know. Slowly, the picture took on shape, came into focus....
Something caught his eye and the picture shattered. Cursing silently, he stared into the dark corner, trying to determine what he had seen. Nothing moved. The corner was dark, still. He stared harder, but the dark only grew blacker, more still.
Deep tremors coursed down his spine. Something was in the corner. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was dark and cold. And it was waiting. He felt himself grow dim, his thoughts blur. The cold darkness crept towards him.
With all his will, he focused on Margaret’s heart-shaped face, fighting against the insidious darkness. “I don’t quite remember what happened.” He forced the words from his mouth, and the darkness receded, leaving him feeling weak and dizzy. He collapsed into one of the red-lacquered chairs. “God, I need a drink.”
He glanced around the room, but no bottle stood on any of the ornate tables. He groaned. “You must help me.”
“Help you get a drink?”
“No, no. Help me clear my name. That must be why I am here.”
Margaret fingered one of the gold tassels tying back the yellow bedcurtains. “How can I do that?”
“Talk to Letty. Perhaps she will know how to go about it.”
Margaret’s better sense told her to say no, to tell him to go away and never come back. Surely he could resolve this problem himself, without her help. There was no need for her to get involved. Besides, for all she knew, he might actually have killed his wife. Although Aunt Letty had said he was unjustly accused, Margaret didn’t quite believe an innocent man could be convicted of murder. “Do you remember anything?”
His brow furrowed, and he gazed into the far corner, a distant look in his eyes. “I seem to remember something about my trial. I could swear I was convicted by a ghost. And I remember people staring at me.”
His hand went to his throat again, his fingers stretching across his neck, rubbing the skin. “Their faces were avid, yet indifferent. They cheered.”
Her fingers grew still on the tassel. Gooseflesh crept up her spine. She waited to see if he would say anymore, but he didn’t.
Silently, he continued to stare into the corner, as if seeing another place, another time. She watched him, trying to read his expression, but his face was remote.
Except for his eyes. The pupils of his eyes were dilated, making them look almost completely black. Black with...
Fear?
She heard herself speak.
“I will help you,” she said.
Chapter Seven
She must be insane.
Staring into the mirror while Yvette dressed her hair, the realization came to Margaret. How else to explain her impulsive agreement to help Phillip? Dear heaven, how else to explain that she even saw Phillip?
Margaret picked up a crystal perfume bottle and twisted the lid back and forth, her eyes still fixed blindly on the mirror. She should have told him to go away. How shocked everyone would be if they knew a man had visited her in her room at night--even if he was a ghost.
A ghost!
An obnoxious ghost. She didn’t like him one bit. Certainly he had deserved whatever happened to him.
But that look on his face....
She shuddered, her fingers rising to her own throat for a moment before returning to twist the perfume cap even more convulsively. What exactly had he remembered? Pain? Agony? Fear?
“Miss...Miss!” Yvette shrieked as perfume spilled out across the polished surface, filling the room with a heavy rose scent.
Margaret jumped up. “Oh dear. I’m sorry, Yvette.”
“Hmmph, what a mess,” the maid grumbled. “I’m sure his lordship must be waiting for you downstairs, Miss Margaret. Maybe you better go on down.”
But belowstairs, Bernard was nowhere in sight. Geoffrey, Cecilia and Jeremy were the only ones in the morning room when Margaret entered. Geoffrey had a black frown on his face and Cecilia’s chin trembled. She looked relieved to see Margaret. After exchanging greetings, Margaret filled her plate and sat down next to Jeremy who was finishing off the remains of his poached eggs.
“Papa, could we go fishing?” he asked.
