by Angie Ray
“Phillip...” Surely he could not be asking what she thought. It was too shocking, too forbidden.
“Margaret, please, would you let me see you--just one glimpse of heaven for a man consigned to what surely must be hell.”
She wanted to. Dear heaven, she wanted to do what he asked. “Oh Phillip,” Margaret whispered achingly. The planes of his face were taut, his eyelids drooped heavily over darkened eyes, eyes dark with an emotion that should have frightened her, but instead made her ache to be held in his arms.
“Please, Margaret. Please be a little generous. Forget those useless inhibitions of yours.”
Somehow, the shawl slipped from her nerveless fingers. Somehow, her fingers were at her throat, unbuttoning her nightgown. Somehow, without conscious thought, she shrugged it off her shoulders, and the concealing white cotton fell in a pool at her feet.
“Ah, Margaret,” he breathed. His gaze moved over her pale white skin, over her breasts, travelling down her long white limbs, then returning to her breasts and lingering there. “Can you truly be as soft as you look? Do you know what exquisite torture it is to know I can never find out?”
It wasn’t fair for a man to have a voice like that, she thought dazedly. So warm, so resonant, it slipped over her skin like caressing fingers, making her tingle and quiver all over and her breasts and her legs tremble. She felt strange, languid, warm.
“Dear God, you are beautiful. I wish...how I wish....”
He lifted a hand toward her breast. With agonizing slowness his fingers reached out and she knew she wanted him to touch her. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything in her entire life. Fascinated, she stared at the glowing hand that was scarcely an inch from the peak of her breast. She barely breathed. Her breasts ached with longing. His fingers drew closer....
A sharp stinging raced from her breast, tingling down to the pit of her stomach where it exploded, sending shock waves to her toes, her fingers, and the very ends of her hair.
With a bright, blinding flash of light, he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Margaret woke slowly the next morning. Not so slowly, came the memory of last night. She groaned and pulled the covers over her head, wishing she could disappear as easily as Phillip did.
What had come over her? Had she been insane? Had Phillip worked some ghostly magic on her to make her do what she had done?
Dear God, she had stood before him naked as a tree in winter.
She felt as though even her toes were blushing.
What a fuss over nothing, her common sense scolded. So a man--correction, a ghost of a man--saw you naked. What of it?
Margaret squirmed a little. It goes against everything I’ve been taught, she answered silently. To be modest, to be virtuous--
Bah! You’ve been modest and virtuous your whole life and what has it gotten you? A fiance who’s more interested in insects than you, that’s what.... Margaret hastily jumped out of bed before any more heretical thoughts could surface.
But when she entered the morning room, it was deserted, and Phillip’s seductive words whispered inside her brain as she ate breakfast.
He had called her beautiful. Strange how such meaningless words could mean so much to her. But somehow, coming from his lips, she had known the words were sincere, and somehow they had transformed her so that she had indeed been beautiful for that moment in time. And when he had touched her....
Geoffrey pushed the door open with one of his crutches and limped in, glancing around the room. “Have you seen Jeremy?” He was frowning, his forehead creased even more than usual. “We were supposed to go fishing.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said. The way Phillip had looked at her. He had looked...hungry. And everything in her had responded to that look. Because she was hungry too. Hungry for excitement, hungry for a life completely different than the one she had agreed to.
His frown deepening, Geoffrey turned on his crutches and almost bumped into Bernard, who was on point of entering.
Bernard looked duller than ever.
“Margaret!” he said. “There you are. I would like to speak to you.”
He paused expectantly.
Then speak, she thought irritably. She wished he would go away. She wanted to relive that moment when a bolt of electricity had leaped from Phillip’s fingers and coursed through her body. And she wanted to try to figure out whether Phillip really had touched her or if he had disappeared before his fingers had actually come into contact with the point of her br--
“Margaret? I must speak with you. In the garden, please, so we can be private.”
Now what? More complaints? “Yes, Bernard,” she managed to murmur politely.
In the garden, he led her to a bench by a clump of deep blue gentians and lilies-of-the-valley. He dusted off the stone seat with his handkerchief before they sat down.
“Ahem.” He fixed his gaze on a rosebush some twenty feet in front of them. “I walked by your room last night.”
A lengthy pause ensued. Margaret shifted on the hard stone bench and recrossed her ankles. Still Bernard did not continue, so she said politely, “Oh?”
“I noticed a light under your door.” He looked at her then, directly into her eyes. His own were serious and inquiring.
“I was reading,” Margaret said glibly, and not untruthfully.
“I heard you talking. And laughing.”
“Oh. I, ah, I read aloud to myself sometimes.” As soon as the words were out, Margaret blushed at the ridiculousness of her lie. “It was a very amusing book,” she said feebly.
Bernard stared at her strangely.
“I see.” He continued to stare at her, causing her to fidget. It was very unlike Bernard to look at her for such a long period of time.
“Is something the matter?” she finally asked, when she could bear it no longer.
“Yes. No. That is, you look different.”
Dear God, did it show?
“You look, well, prettier.”
Margaret gaped at him in astonishment.
“I, that is, of course you have always been pretty. At least, I have always thought so. I mean, I am sure everyone thinks so. I mean....”
Laughter bubbled to her lips. His eyes moved to her mouth, and Margaret froze.
Hastily, he stood up. His hands fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his watch. Click snap, click snap, click snap.
“I had better go find Geoffrey and Jeremy,” he mumbled. “We are supposed to go fishing.” He turned and stumbled on the paving stones. Regaining his balance, he hurried away.
Margaret remained where she was, her thoughts a jumble.
For a moment, she had almost thought he was going to--no, she must have imagined it. He would never kiss her. It was totally unthinkable that Bernard would do something so, so fiance-like. Perhaps he had seen a freckle by her mouth, or some other blemish, and that was why he had stared so intently. Still, there had been something strange about him. And he had noticed something strange about her.
She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. She felt strange. Part of her wanted to turn her face up to the sun and dance around the garden. The other part of her was shrieking, Be careful! Don’t do anything foolish! Her emotions were at war with her brain and she didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She only knew that somehow, Phillip was involved and if she were sensible, she would turn her back on him and his problems and concentrate on Bernard.
She was tired of being sensible.
A rustling noise interrupted her cogitations. She looked up. A rosebush in the middle of the garden was shaking. Going over to investigate, she found Jeremy, lying on his stomach, grubbing in the dirt.
She had not spoken to him since the incident with the apple core. “Hello, Jeremy,” she said tentatively.
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then she heard a grudging, “Hello, Miss Westbourne.”
He did not move from his position under the bush and Margaret felt a trifle awkward. Did he blame her fo
r the whipping he had received? “Your father is looking for you.”
Jeremy did not reply.
“You were supposed to go fishing with him and your Uncle Bernard.”
Still no reply.
“I think your father is concerned about you, Jeremy.”
“No he’s not. He doesn’t care about me at all.” Digging up a handful of dirt, Jeremy clutched it in his hands.
The bitter words shocked Margaret. She crouched down, trying to see his face. “How can you say that? He’s your father and naturally he cares about you.”
The boy sifted the dirt through his fingers, revealing a fat slug. “He’s not my father.”
“What? Of course he’s--“
“No he’s not!” Jeremy threw the slug away and looked up. Bright, defiant eyes stared into hers. “I heard the maids talking at Grandpapa Barstow’s. They said I was a bastard.” A small sniff escaped him. “I asked my friend, Brandon, what that meant and he said it means my father isn’t truly my father.”
Margaret sank onto her knees beside him, unheeding of the soil staining her dress. She put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away. For a moment she felt helpless, then anger for the loose-tongued maids surged through her. How dare they name an innocent child so?
“Even if it’s true, Jeremy, I’m sure your father loves you very much and considers you his son.”
Jeremy scrambled to his feet. “No he doesn’t. He’s always frowning and scolding. He never calls me ‘son’. Brandon’s father always calls him ‘son’.”
Margaret felt out of her depth. Rising to her feet, she brushed the dirt from her dress, wondering how she could reassure Jeremy, or if she should even try. She had no idea if the story was even true. Studying Jeremy, she could see many of Cecilia’s features, and none of Geoffrey’s, but that proved nothing. Really, Cecilia or Geoffrey needed to talk to him. “Why don’t you go fishing with your father and ask him about it?”
“No, I don’t want to.” His mouth a stubborn line, he tilted his chin up in a strangely familiar way. “I don’t even care, not really.”
In spite of his proud words, she could see the misery in his dark eyes. Unable to comfort him, not knowing what to say, she decided to change the subject, hoping to distract him. “If you don’t want to go fishing, would you like to go to Wynch Bridge with me?”
A spark of interest lit his eye. “Maybe.” He wiped the palms of his hands on his breeches.
Before Margaret could say anything more, Bernard returned. “There you are, Jeremy!” he exclaimed. “Your father and I have been looking everywhere for you.”
Jeremy immediately looked sullen. “I don’t want to go fishing.”
Bernard frowned and opened his mouth.
“I told Jeremy I would take him to Wynch Bridge,” Margaret said hurriedly.
“You will have to ask Geoffrey,” Bernard said. “Perhaps he can go with you.”
“Mama said I mustn’t ask Papa to take me there. He couldn’t go on the bridge because of his leg.”
Bernard’s frown deepened. “Then I will have to escort you, if Geoffrey gives Jeremy permission to go.”
Margaret’s heart sank. She had hoped to try out the bridge. Bernard’s presence would spoil everything. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Margaret, you cannot go gallivanting around the countryside with only a boy. People would think you eccentric to say the least.”
“I don’t care what people think,” she muttered in a low, cross voice.
Unfortunately, Bernard heard her. Shock rendered him momentarily speechless.
“You...don’t...care?” he sputtered. “But I thought....” His voice trailed off and he stared at her as if she were an anarchist. “You’ve changed,” he finally said. “Ever since we came here. Next thing, you’ll be talking to Phillip.”
She tried to keep the blush from rising in her cheeks, but she knew she had not succeeded when Bernard’s expression grew incredulous.
“Margaret--“ he began, then stopped, looking down at Jeremy’s wide-eyed face. “Jeremy, run ask your father if you may come with us to Wynch Bridge.”
Jeremy scampered off, and Bernard turned back to Margaret, standing before her like a judge. “Now, Margaret,” he said. “What is this lunacy? Do you truly pretend to have heard Phillip’s ghost?”
Irritation rose in Margaret. “I pretend nothing,” she snapped. “I have seen him.”
“You have actually seen him? Good Lord!” Bernard stared speechlessly at her.
“I know you must think I am insane. I think so myself, sometimes. But certainly something has been in my room every night.”
“In your room? Margaret, do you mean to say that he visits you in your room at night?”
Bernard could not have sounded more shocked if she had confessed to having sexual congress with the devil himself.
“You are overreacting.” Margaret spoke sharply. “He is a ghost. A phantasm. He never stays later than midnight, and he cannot touch me, even if he so desired, even if I would allow it.”
“That is beside the point. The point is that a person of the male sex is in your room at night! Dear heaven, has he even seen you in your nightrail?”
He has even seen me without it, Margaret was tempted to say. Fortunately, Jeremy came back, shouting, “I can go!” and prevented her from committing that particular indiscretion. Instead, she only said coldly, “This entire discussion is beside the point.”
The trip to the bridge was silent. When they arrived, Jeremy immediately shot out of the carriage, and ran off.
“Stay off the bridge, Jeremy!” Bernard shouted after him.
Margaret followed Jeremy, her pace quickening. When she caught up to him, he was looking longingly at the bridge. “Would you like to come out on the bridge with me?” she asked.
“Oh, Miss Westbourne! Yes!”
“You know I told you the bridge is not safe.” Bernard huffed, coming up behind.
Margaret hesitated. She didn’t want to endanger herself or Jeremy--
“I insist you stay here, Margaret.”
“You may stay if you like,” she said. Grabbing Jeremy’s hand, she moved out onto the structure.
It did sway most alarmingly, she thought, grabbing the cold iron chain that suspended the bridge with one hand, and holding firmly onto Jeremy with the other. Together, they inched forward on the wooden slats, out towards the middle of the bridge.
It was like being in some fantastical fairy world. Rainbow mist sparkled all around her, enveloping her in a cool layer of spun gossamer. Jeremy shouted something at her, but she could not hear him over the roar of the falls. The bridge began to sway again, and Margaret felt like she was flying. Exhilaration swept her and she laughed out loud.
A hand latched onto her elbow. Startled, she turned to see Bernard standing behind her, his face pale, but determined. Her grip on the iron chain tightened. She half expected him to drag her off the bridge, but to her surprise he merely stood there, waiting.
After a while, Margaret beckoned to Jeremy, and they all returned to the side.
“That was prime! Thank you, Miss Westbourne,” Jeremy said before running ahead to the carriage.
Margaret followed with Bernard. She peeked at him sideways, wondering if he was going to lecture her. He still looked a bit pale.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t care for heights,” he replied.
“What!” She stopped, staring at him in astonishment. “Why, I remember when you climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the orchard to get the last cherry for me.”
“You will also remember I fell and broke my leg. Even at that age, looking down a long way made me dizzy.”
“Oh,” Margaret said blankly. She had not known. She’d never even suspected. Looking over her shoulder at the swaying bridge, guilt pricked at her. Going out on the bridge must have been torture for him. “I’m sorry, Bernard. You should have stayed at the side.”
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“As I said before, the bridge is dangerous, and I wanted to be at hand if you needed help.”
He had truly been worried for her, she realized in amazement. Her guilt increased. “I appreciate your concern.”
He pulled her to a stop, and faced her, his expression serious, his chin for once thrust forward. “I am always at your service, Margaret, for anything. Even if I don’t approve of your actions.” His grey eyes darkened. “Such as your consorting with Phillip. I shudder to think what has been going on between you two.”
Margaret shuddered to think what Bernard would say if he knew. Her guilt made her reply sharper than it might have been otherwise. “There is nothing going on between us. He is trapped here because of the curse, that is all, and I would appreciate it if you would keep your base imaginings to yourself.”
A dull flush colored his face. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply...of course you would not do anything improper. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Margaret turned her face away so he wouldn’t see her burning cheeks. “Please, let us not discuss it.”
The journey home was silent. It wasn’t until Margaret was dressing for dinner that it finally registered. Bernard, after his initial disbelief, had not doubted she saw a ghost, and in fact, had tacitly admitted that Phillip did indeed exist.
Chapter Fourteen
Bernard knotted his cravat haphazardly, paying little heed to the process. Ignoring the protestations of his valet, he shrugged on his dark blue dinner coat and slipped his watch into his pocket. The result was perhaps less than perfect, sartorially, but Bernard was too worried to care that a crease marred his sleeve or that his cravat was a trifle askew.
Something was wrong with Margaret, and the more he thought about it, the more worried he became. She had changed, and he had a sinking feeling he knew why.
Phillip. Margaret could see Phillip.
Waving aside his fuming valet, Bernard went downstairs. He was too early for dinner, so he wandered into the picture gallery. Stopping before the portrait of Phillip, he stared up at the painted visage.
