by Angie Ray
Before Geoffrey could reply, Cecilia spoke. “Your father had a bad night, Jeremy. He will need to rest today.”
Jeremy nodded, making no protest, but seeing his drooping mouth, Cecilia added, “Perhaps you may dine at table tonight if Aunt Letty gives permission.”
“Gives permission for what?” asked Aunt Letty, entering the room.
“For Jeremy to dine with us tonight, if Margaret doesn’t mind,” said Cecilia. Margaret shook her head.
“What a delightful idea,” Aunt Letty said. “I’ll look forward to your company, young sir.”
“Thank you, Aunt Letty.” Jeremy quietly excused himself, and slouched out of the room.
Cecilia looked after him, a worried expression on her face. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that child.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Aunt Letty’s sparse eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s a sweet boy,” she continued fondly. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she sat next to Margaret. “Where is Bernard, dear?”
“I don’t know precisely,” Margaret said. An idea occurred to her. “Perhaps you would show me the rest of the picture gallery while I’m waiting for him?”
Aunt Letty’s wrinkles quivered with the force of her smile. “Of course, dear child.”
As Margaret followed the old woman from the room, she heard Cecilia say, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Geoffrey.” The closing door muffled Geoffrey’s reply.
Margaret forgot the incident when Aunt Letty pointed out the portrait of Phillip’s first wife. She had a narrow, sallow face, and wore a dark dress with a high neck and long sleeves. She sat stiffly on a hard, uncomfortable-looking chair.
“Poor Mary,” said Aunt Letty, looking up at her sister’s unsmiling face. “She was so plain. But she had a huge dowry, and the Eglinton family needed to marry money. Phillip came courting and he was so dashing, so brave, so handsome. How I adored him. When he and my sister married, I visited them often, and he always had a gift and a compliment for me. I was ever so jealous of my sister. I wished I could have married him, but alas, I was only six. But when my mother died in a carriage accident, I went to live with them. He taught me how to ride and to dance, and even to handle a rapier. How charming he was! All the ladies adored him. Whenever we had company for dinner, I would watch from the landing as all the women flirted with him and stood close to him and dropped their fans and all manner of silly things. Especially that Alicia.” Aunt Letty moved to the next painting.
Margaret looked at the portrait of Phillip’s second wife. Her hair curled in blonde ringlets down her back, her lips and eyes smiled knowingly, and she wore some sort of gauzy drapery which Margaret supposed was meant to be a dress. The diaphanous material slipped off one shoulder, low over her right breast, as if she were undressing. In the background, a sylvan glade waited invitingly.
“Phillip married to please himself the second time,” Aunt Letty said unnecessarily. “How I hated her! She already had Lord Mortimer--the first Earl, I mean--on a string, but she was never satisfied. My sister died in childbirth and that was all that harpy needed. She started lurking about--coming to the house alone, or running into Phillip when he was out riding. She came over every day to ‘console’ Phillip and never left him alone for a minute. He married her a year later.” Aunt Letty glared at Alicia’s painted face. “The trollop.”
Margaret choked a little and Aunt Letty smiled innocently at her.
“Are you all right, dear? You should be careful. I had a cousin who suffered a coughing spell like that and choked to death before anyone knew what happened.”
“Yes, Aunt Letty,” Margaret said, recovering. “What happened after Phillip married Alicia?”
Aunt Letty’s eyes grew bright with malice. “Phillip said I could still live with them. She didn’t like that of course. She didn’t like me, even though I was ever so sweet to her. She always blamed me every time her hem came undone or she found a lizard in her dressing table drawer or pepper got in her perfume. She was a very untrusting person. They argued over that and they argued over other things too. One night I heard a great ruckus and I sneaked out on the landing. Phillip and Alicia were below, dripping wet. There was a fearful storm that night, and they must have been out in it. Alicia screamed that she hated him, that he was cold and mean; he shouted back that she was a greedy slut.”
Aunt Letty shook her head with vigorous satisfaction.
“The next day, Alicia was feverish. I can’t say I was surprised. She stayed in her bed and I certainly didn’t visit her, but I heard the servants whispering about her mad ravings. The next night Phillip pushed her down the stairs and I don’t blame him a bit. She deserved it.”
Dear heaven, he had murdered his wife, thought Margaret, feeling a bit faint. A murderer had been in her room last night. And yet-- “But Aunt Letty, I thought you said he was unjustly accused.”
“Certainly he was. Giving someone a little nudge is hardly the same thing as murder.” Aunt Letty smiled ingenuously at Margaret.
Margaret smiled back weakly. Was the old woman completely amoral? “Aunt Letty, couldn’t it have been an accident?”
“I don’t think so. Alicia was carrying on with Lord Mortimer. Phillip must have found out.” Aunt Letty’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I simply don’t understand what she saw in the earl. He was a greasy sort. Much like the current Lord Mortimer. Poor boy. How unfortunate that he so closely resembles his grandfather. Not that I hold his looks against him. He can be very understanding at times. And I do so enjoy his card parties.”
“But Aunt Letty, what makes you think--?”
The door swung open, stopping her in mid-sentence. Bernard stood there, frowning, chin folded against his chest, arms crossed. “There you are, Margaret. I have been looking for you. Would you like to go for a ride?”
Margaret hesitated. She had not found out what Phillip needed to know yet, and the conversation with Aunt Letty was getting very interesting. “I don’t know, Bernard. Aunt Letty is telling me about Phillip.”
“Nonsense, child. Run along. I remember what it is like to be young and in love. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from Bernard’s side.” Aunt Letty smiled benevolently.
Bernard held out his elbow. With a brittle smile, Margaret placed her fingers on his arm, barely touching the fabric.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Bernard said, “Margaret, I wish you wouldn’t encourage Aunt Letty to talk about Phillip. I am afraid she is losing her grip on reality.”
“I am sorry, Bernard,” she said dutifully, trying not to grit her teeth.
She rode out with him and he forgot his displeasure enough to deliver a highly technical discourse on the anatomy of the common house fly.
Had she truly moped that whole summer when she was twelve because he had gone to visit a friend instead of coming home? Yes, she had, because she remembered her mother had given her a nasty Strengthening Fomentation which tasted like tree bark.
As Bernard explained the difference between upper and lower mandibles, Margaret’s thoughts wandered to Phillip. Could he truly be a murderer? She just couldn’t believe it. If only she could have talked to Aunt Letty a bit longer! Perhaps when she returned to the house she would be able to corner the old woman again.
Unfortunately, Margaret had no such opportunity any time that afternoon, and after dinner Bernard suggested a game of cards to which Aunt Letty enthusiastically agreed. In the parlor, her hopes of getting the old woman by herself effectively destroyed, Margaret picked up a book and started turning the pages.
“Margaret, do you wish to play?” Bernard asked.
“No thank you. I’m not much of a cardplayer,” Margaret said. She didn’t want to get tied up in a game that could very possibly go on until all hours of the night. “This book is fascinating.”
The others began playing, and Margaret pretended to read while she mulled over what Aunt Letty had told her today. Not much. If only Bernard hadn’t interrupted!
Perhaps it wouldn’t matte
r, though--perhaps Phillip would not appear tonight.
Although she would think he would want to find out what she had discovered.
But truly, she wished he would stay away. She never wanted to see the rudesby again. He was unbelievably insolent and arrogant and--
She looked at the clock. Half-past eight. It was still light outside. Could she possibly retire so early?
She turned another page in the book and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her. It was some sort of deadly dull poem. She flipped back a few pages to see the title. “Ode to Prince Albert”, she read.
The clock struck the quarter-hour.
“I do believe I’ll retire.” Margaret yawned. “I am most extraordinarily tired.”
Upstairs, her pace quickened as she approached her room. With lightning speed, she changed behind the screen, almost popping the buttons off her dress in her haste. She was about to dismiss Yvette, when she remembered something.
“Yvette, would you bring a decanter of brandy and a glass here?”
Yvette tottered a few steps. “Brandy, Miss?”
“Yes, brandy. Please hurry.”
Muttering under her breath, the maid hurried away. After she returned with the brandy, Margaret dismissed her, and turned her attention to the lamp on her dressing table.
Should she leave the lamp lit or blow it out? Better to leave it lit. She felt safer when she had some control over the light. It was too creepy to have lights suddenly appearing and disappearing. With a nod, she picked up the lamp, placed it on her nightstand, and climbed into bed.
Should she be sitting up or lying down when he came? Sitting up was definitely more proper, she decided. She shoved the pillows up against the dragon on the headboard and wiggled into an upright position. She tucked the yellow silk blanket up under her arms, making sure it completely covered her chest, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
And waited.
As the minutes stretched into hours, irritation replaced her anticipation. Where was he? She punched the pillows a few times, feeling foolish. Perhaps she ought to lie down, instead of sitting there as if she were expecting him. He might think she was waiting for him. Better to lie down.
Pushing the pillows down, she lay down and closed her eyes. She sniffed. She could still smell the rose perfume she had spilled this morning, but nothing else. Where was he?
It was impossible to keep her eyes shut. She opened them and stared up at the underside of the pagoda roof. The light from the lamp cast a different angle of light, and something caught her eye.
For the first time, she saw a painted cloud near the edge of the roof. Grabbing the lamp and holding it up, she rose to her knees to see better. She saw that the sleeping Chinese man was completely surrounded by puffy white clouds, each with a scene painted in the middle. The first cloud showed the Chinese man standing on a ship, fighting off a hoard of pirates. The next showed him listening to a man playing music on a flute. In another he was surrounded by laughing children and in another he and a woman were--
Margaret gasped and lowered the lamp, but it was too late, the picture had imprinted itself on her brain. A man and woman in a strange position. Naked.
She was shocked. Did Aunt Letty know about this...this indecent picture? Thinking of the sweet old lady, Margaret decided she must be unaware. How embarrassed she would be if Margaret told her.
Perhaps she shouldn’t mention it. And perhaps she should look again--merely to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken.
No, she wasn’t mistaken. The man appeared to be joined at the hip with the woman and his hand rested against her breast. A strange tingle lodged low in Margaret’s stomach. What did it feel like? she wondered. What did it feel like to be so intimate, so--
“Good evening, Margaret.”
Margaret almost set the bed on fire, she jumped so. A blush suffused her entire body. Clanking the lamp down, she scrambled under the blanket, glaring at Phillip. Had he noticed what she was looking at? “I wish you would knock or something!”
“Forgive my impatience.”
In spite of their politeness, his words were a trifle brusque. Conversely, Margaret breathed a little easier. Apparently he had seen nothing out of the ordinary.
“Being a ghost is very tiresome,” he continued. He stood by her bed, his stance casual, but a tension radiated from him. The glow around him shone very brightly, highlighting his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. “I want to rest in peace or go wherever I am supposed to go.”
“I wouldn’t be so eager to arrive at my destination if I were you,” Margaret said grumpily, shoving the pillows back up for the second time.
Phillip looked at her sharply. “What have you discovered?”
“Aunt Letty said she believes Alicia and Lord Mortimer were having an affair, which you discovered. You argued with Alicia, and the next night pushed her down the stairs.”
“Mortimer,” he said slowly. “I do seem to remember something about him. There was a storm. I remember a swordfight in the rain. I left him there in the mud and dragged Alicia home.”
Phillip passed a hand across his brow. “How she screamed at me. I can almost hear her shrieking in that perforating voice of hers. I very nearly strangled her right then.”
Margaret inhaled sharply.
Looking up, he saw her expression. He continued testily. “But I didn’t. She caught pneumonia, and I believe she was delirious when she fell down the stairs. The idea that I pushed her is ridiculous.”
The breath eased out of Margaret. “Then why did the jury convict you?”
“Because....” His black brows drew together and he frowned at a gold tassel. “Hell and the devil, I can’t remember.” He raked his fingers through his short auburn hair. “What did Aunt Letty say?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask her about the trial.”
He stared at her. “You didn’t get a chance? Why the devil not?”
“It’s not easy to ask questions about a ghost,” Margaret flared defensively. “Aunt Letty tends to ramble. She went on and on about how handsome you were and how charming and how the ladies adored you.”
Phillip started to grin. “Dear Letty. She always was remarkably astute.”
“The way she talks, I’m surprised you haven’t been nominated for sainthood,” Margaret said sourly, disliking his smugness.
“Oh, I would never qualify for sainthood...”
Margaret disliked the leer on his face even more.
“...I have too much of a fondness for the ladies. Women are so soft and pretty and wondrously sweet in bed.” The glow around him softened, became less harsh as he smiled down at her.
She could feel her color rising. Her heartbeat trotted at an uncomfortable rhythm. “Really sir, this conversation is most improper.”
He laughed wickedly and sat down on the bed. The pace of her heart increased to a canter. He leaned toward her, the cold air around him raising goose bumps on her arms. Hastily, she scooted away. He laughed again, and she pressed up against a bedpost, aware that suddenly there was a very different look to him--a sleepy, languorous look that spoke of forbidden things.
“So prim, Margaret? What do you think I will do to you?” His voice was as soft and smooth and seductive as hot chocolate.
“I...nothing...that is....”
The light around him pulsed and shimmered. Mesmerizing gray eyes gazed into hers, and her heart positively galloped.
What would he do to her?
Chapter Eight
Abruptly, Phillip rose to his feet. He stood with his back to her for several long moments. Finally he turned, and she shrank a little from his hard expression.
He must have sensed her confusion, because his face softened and he smiled a little as he said, “Don’t worry Miss Westbourne. Your virtue is safe with me. Even if I wished it, I could not touch you.”
“You couldn’t? Why not?”
“I’m not sure. I just have this sense that I cannot touch you.”
“Oh.” Her heart slowed to a plodding walk. “One of the rules of being a ghost, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” His gaze lingered on her hair, before he turned away again.
An odd disappointment filled her. Not that she wanted him to touch her, it was merely that she was...curious. It was perfectly natural to be curious about a ghost. She watched him bend down in front of the mirror on her dressing table. No reflection looked back. How strange. Did it bother him? she wondered. “Phillip,” she said tentatively. “What is it like?”
“What?”
“Being a ghost.”
“Oh.” He walked over and put his hand through the wall, then pulled it out. He stared at the intact wall and his undamaged hand, then repeated the process. “Actually, it is not much different from being alive. I feel cold though. Colder than I’ve ever been, but it doesn’t come from the outside, it comes from within.”
He stared over at the corner as if he could see something there by the wardrobe. Margaret followed his gaze, but the light didn’t extend that far and all she could see was the dark.
“I feel everything I did when I was alive. Almost everything,” he amended, pulling out his hand and wiggling his fingers. “But it all seems very far away, out of reach, as if a great distance separated me from you.” He looked at her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. Then he turned and continued his hand game. “Also, as you are aware, my memory is rather foggy. It seems as though everything happened a long time ago.”
“Seventy-eight years is rather a long time.”
“Yes, but I don’t remember anything in between. It is very peculiar.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No. Wait. Yes, I do remember something. A dream, I think. I know Mortimer was in it, and a man who looked like Mortimer, but that’s all.”
“How odd. Nothing else?”
“I vaguely remember a voice whispering to me.”
“Probably Aunt Letty.”
“Probably.” He prowled restlessly around the room, inspecting the dressing screen, the carved red bedposts. When he saw the crystal decanter on the escritoire, he stopped, his face lighting up. “Brandy, by God!”
