The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  Or it might have been whispering. It was hard to tell over the sound of my rustling gown. I was very aware of spiritual presence—like last night, only more so because tonight I left myself open to it, listened for it, almost strained towards it. A few of the curious trailed over my consciousness but didn’t come close. The emotions of the centuries were strong but stayed, mostly, in the stones and fabric of the house. Emotions, however powerful or vile, could do nothing without will.

  I walked past Miss Salton’s door, wondering how she felt about Haggard Hall. Clearly, she was jealous of her position, but I could hardly blame her for wishing to hang on to it. Good posts were hard to find, as I well knew. But did she actually like it here? Did she like little Irene, whom she’d left alone and frightened during the storm? Perhaps she was just thoughtless, like the child’s mother. I wondered if old Lady Haggard struck her with her stick when she didn’t jump to commands fast enough. I almost knocked on her door to ask, but fortunately stopped myself in time.

  My own room felt curiously depressing. The fire wasn’t lit; presumably last night’s fire had been only to take the chill off because the room hadn’t been used in so long. Whatever the reason, I felt cold and hurried into my night things so that I could wrap myself up in bed. I sat up against the pillows, reading.

  But the creaking hadn’t stopped, nor had the brushing walls, and now I definitely heard whispers of undistinguishable words.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Although I couldn’t work out what direction the sounds came from, I was sure they weren’t in my head. For a while, I tried to ignore them and concentrate on my book, but they were too intrusive. So I sat them out for a bit, my head resting back against the headboard, waiting for something to happen.

  Nothing did. I lay down to sleep, and then, with the next rush of whispers, abruptly sat up again and slithered out of bed to light my night candle. Then I snatched up my warm robe and put it on before sliding my feet into comfortable old carpet slippers and following the whispers and the creaks around my room. Eventually, I realized most of the whispers seemed to come from the chimney. I stuck my head up, narrowly avoiding a face full of soot.

  Whispers and rustling echoed around my head, louder than before.

  I drew back and got to my feet.

  “This is ridiculous,” I muttered, and, grabbing up my candle, I opened the door as silently as I could. I didn’t close it behind me for I had no wish to disturb anyone. Then I padded along the passage first in one direction, then in the other.

  At first I heard no whispering at all and thought it must have stopped. Then as I moved slowly towards the centre of the house, I heard a creak and a rustle. I sprinted to the end of the passage and up the tiny pair of stairs in the direction I was sure I’d heard the creaking. I found myself outside a closed door. Beside it, a narrow staircase, probably for the servants’ use, wound around and upwards. Something rustled, I was sure something breathed.

  At first I thought it was on the stairs and lifted my candle high. But then something definitely moved behind the door. I tried to calm my breathing, thought quite seriously about returning to bed and telling everyone who would listen—which meant Emily, I suspected—in the morning. But the unkindness of this stuck in my craw. Why should Emily be put through this if I could bring it to an end?

  Slowly, I reached out and closed my fingers around the handle. There was definitely presence on the other side of the door; waves of furious guilt and pain and anger. Difficult. But I didn’t need to confront; I only needed to discover in order to end this. I began to lift the latch. Without warning, it tore out of my hand and the door flew open.

  Blinking in the glare of the light within, I narrowed my eyes upon Patrick Haggard. My stomach dived. In his shirt sleeves, with buttons partially undone and his hair wild as if he’d dragged his hands through it several times, he stared at me.

  I frowned back. “This isn’t right. You’ve only just arrived.”

  His lips curved. “But I’m a broad-minded man. Come in, by all means.”

  “What is this room?” I demanded, trying to peer around him.

  Obligingly, he stepped to one side and leaned against the wall. I saw a wash bowl and jug, a big wardrobe…and a bed.

  My whole body flamed with embarrassment. What had I been thinking?

  I hastily scanned the room for other occupants, took in his soaked great coat over a chair by the merrily blazing fire—so he got a fire on his first night too. Many sheets of paper were scattered over the bed around a depression where he’d obviously sprawled to look at them. I saw no sign of anyone else. But I was increasingly aware of the large, still body leaning against the wall so close to me.

  I risked a glance up at him, and found his too-warm gaze on me, a sensual little smile playing around his lips. His gaze dropped, and I had to prevent myself clutching my robe more closely around me.

  “Please,” he said, flourishing one arm into the room in clear invitation. It might have been my candle, but his dark eyes seemed to glitter. His relaxed pose, though somehow provocative, only emphasized the breadth of his chest and the strength in his arms. I refused to look lower, and I had no time to worry about my own inconvenient desires.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Close the door.”

  Without waiting for him to comply, I turned away, seized my trailing robe and night gown in one hand, and ran up the stone staircase as fast as I could. My candle sent wild shadows flitting up the walls, alarming me because all my senses were dulled by the embarrassment—and, frankly, the lust—of my unexpected encounter with Patrick Haggard. I couldn’t afford the tiniest passing thought of him right now, and yet my body still felt heavy and my mind hazy.

  Distance. I needed distance, I thought, as I emerged warily at the top of the stairs and looked directly into another dark passage. I paused, listening. Was that a breath? I took a hasty few steps. A rush of air came from nowhere, brushing against my cheek, and my candle went out.

  From instinct, I leapt to one side, but nothing hit me, so I paused, trying to get used to the impenetrable darkness and not lose my orientation. This floor was nearly all guest bedrooms and most of them should have been empty, but I had no desire to go blundering into the rooms of Prince Bela or Mr. Faversham.

  A floorboard creaked farther down the passage. I took one step after it and became aware of a faint light. I stopped, realized the light came from behind, and turned in time to see Patrick Haggard emerge from the stone staircase, a candlestick bearing four lit candles in one hand.

  “What are you doing, Mrs. Darke?” he murmured, his low voice intrigued. “Searching for spirits?”

  “I don’t need to search for those,” I replied. “My quarry is flesh and blood.”

  “And who is our quarry?” he enquired, clearly humouring me.

  “If you’ll let me relight my candle from yours, I’ll endeavour to find out.”

  “Be my guest,” he offered, lowering his candle stick for me.

  Deliberately, I didn’t look at him as I relit my candle, merely murmured a word of thanks and hurried along the passage in the direction of the last creak.

  “What did our quarry do to arouse your ire?” he asked, keeping pace beside me with long, easy strides.

  Our quarry again. I tried not to be pleased by his company, but of course, a witness could only be good.

  “You’re aware of the whispering and other disturbances Emily mentioned. Well, I heard them too.”

  He glanced at me. “She brought you here to find the ghosts.”

  “Well, I’ve never met a ghost who talked through chimneys or made floorboards creak when they moved around. Someone is being mean to Emily and clearly hopes to scare me in the same way.”

  “But you’re not remotely scared,” he observed, “being made of sterner stuff than poor Emily.”

  I spared him a glance.
He seemed determined to think the worst of me for something. But his gaze was merely curious, and it was divided between me and the passage ahead, darting from side to side.

  “Well,” I said, “I have one major advantage over poor Emily. I know a ghostly presence from a human one.”

  “And how do you know that?” he asked with apparent fascination.

  “Experience. And common sense.” I stopped and listened intently, peering down the length of the passage to where it turned. He paused with me, although I was aware his attention was on me rather than the way ahead. I tried to think of more than what he saw or imagined he saw.

  I hadn’t heard or seen any doors open or close here. My guess was that my—our—quarry had run around the corner while I was in darkness, and hidden in one of the rooms there. I hoped there weren’t many.

  Decisively, I hurried along the passage and around the corner. Patrick held his candles high, showing me the galleries ahead around the main staircase.

  “Damn,” I said in frustration. Escape upwards or downwards would have been easy, and although there were a few doors within easy reach, I thought it unlikely my quarry had waited to be discovered there when they didn’t need to.

  Besides, Patrick was already opening the first door on his left.

  “Who sleeps here?” I murmured. “Do you even know?”

  “No. But Henry’s usually on the other side of the stairs. I expect they put Bela in the same area.”

  “Well, let’s hope so, so that no one shoots you as an intruder.”

  He brought his head back out and closed the door. “Henry’s not a violent man. Though I wouldn’t let Bela within grabbing distance of a firearm.” He strode onto the next door and opened that one too. “I think your bird has flown, Mrs. Darke.”

  I sighed. “I think you’re right. There’s no one else in this part of the house.”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “More common sense?”

  “Something like that.”

  This was where I left such questions, as a rule. My life is easier when people don’t regard me as insane or some kind of freak. I was fairly sure Patrick Haggard regarded me merely as an opportunistic charlatan who fancied a life of ease with her rich and gullible former pupil. Perhaps the clarity of his gaze or his undeniable strength of presence compelled me to speak. Or perhaps he just made me perverse.

  I lifted my chin. “Unless they’re asleep, people emit constant, changing emotions, however mild. I can sense those, and they’re not here.”

  His lip twitched with something like distaste. Or it might have been disappointment. I didn’t want to look.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “I’m not talking about you.”

  “Oh, go on,” he urged mockingly. “Entertain me as we return to our own wing, with your reading of my emotions right now.”

  “I have no intention of entertaining you at all,” I snapped, “and please don’t feel obliged to accompany me. I remember the way.”

  “I am not so ungentlemanly.” Inexorably, he came with me, and in truth I was glad of the extra light. And the company. I still wasn’t sure that my quarry wouldn’t leap out of one of the doors we’d already passed and attack me. “So how was it,” he enquired, “that you didn’t sense my decidedly wakeful presence in my bedroom?”

  “I did. Why do you imagine I tried to come in?”

  “I had hoped you sought my company.”

  “No you didn’t. You thought I was a slut who imagined she could seduce you into a good opinion of her—or at least into dropping your opposition to my presence with Emily.”

  “Slut is such an unkind word,” he complained.

  “For what it’s worth,” I said with dignity, “I apologise for intruding. I thought such a door next to the stairs must be a broom cupboard or some such, where my quarry was hiding.”

  “Maybe I’m your quarry. It would explain why we haven’t found him. Or her.”

  “True. But you weren’t here when Emily heard these sounds.”

  “Perhaps I have an accomplice.”

  “I can’t imagine why. What reason could you have to frighten Emily?”

  “Thank you for your unexpected defence. But what reason does anyone have?”

  “I can’t think of one,” I confessed. “It seems pointlessly malicious.”

  “And what will you tell Emily about this adventure?”

  “Nothing. She’s nervous enough.” I caught on as he halted by the entrance to the narrow stone stairs and stared at him. I actually laughed. “You think I’ve gone to all this trouble to convince Emily how much she needs me?”

  “How much does she need you?” he asked steadily.

  “A little. For a little while.” I made to brush past him, but he entered the staircase first, lighting the way.

  “And then what will you do?” Unexpectedly, he reached behind with his free hand to take mine on the narrow turn. I allowed it since it seemed churlish to refuse. Tingles from his strong, warm fingers scattered upward over my wrist, distracting me from his question, which I hung on to with difficulty.

  “Seek another teaching post, probably,” I replied, after not too long a pause.

  “Aren’t you tired of such respectability?” he asked casually. “Your name implies a hankering quite otherwise.”

  “My name?” I repeated, frowning down at the top of his head with incomprehension.

  “Mrs. Darke,” he mocked. My foot stumbled, and from the bottom step, he tightened his grip on my hand, steadying me. But he didn’t move out of the way. Instead, as my foot hit the bottom of the stairs, he dragged me against him. “Mrs. Darke, the spiritualist, the medium,” he uttered with scorn, staring down into my face with stony, insolent eyes. “Really?”

  I said nothing, merely stared back, holding myself rigid in his grasp. In truth, trapped between him and the stairs in that cramped corner, there weren’t many places for me to go. His strength, his hardness, was all I had imagined, and a wicked surge of excitement spun through my belly and down between my legs. Worse, I could feel his erection growing against my hip, and try as I would, I couldn’t mind. The lust that had always lurked between us seemed to thicken the surrounding air, weighing me down, melting me.

  “Mrs. Darke,” he murmured, much more softly, “widow of an east end vicar? My dear lady, please. Was there ever even a husband?”

  I jerked involuntarily, stumbling with him back against the wall, where even twisting my head aside couldn’t hide my face, so I tried to spit scorn from my eyes instead. Certainly, I curled my lip.

  His harsh eyes searched mine without blinking. “And there it is again,” he murmured, “a spark of raw, genuine grief. I’m inclined to believe in the husband, though his profession still leaves me sceptical.”

  “You can’t begin to imagine how little your inclinations concern me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lady really should be concerned about the inclinations of a man quite so close to her.” He actually moved his hip for emphasis. If his erection didn’t quite grind against me, it certainly caressed, and I had to squash the instinctive tug of my own body towards it.

  I swallowed. “At least you aren’t hypocrite enough to say ‘gentleman’.”

  “I have few personal delusions.” His gaze dropped to the region of my lips. “And you are incredibly, temptingly beautiful.”

  “How sad I can’t return the compliment,” I managed. There wasn’t much distance between our lips; it would have taken little effort to close it. The butterflies in my stomach dived. How would he kiss? Fiercely, as I’d imagined his more intimate lovemaking in my dream…or tender and sensual…?

  Sensual, certainly. It was there in the curve of his mouth as my heart beat and beat and waited.

  He said, “I’m told I have other charms that make up for my looks. I could
give you pleasure.”

  Oh but he could. Every pulse in my body told me that. His head dipped slowly, bending inexorably closer. My lips knew the urge to tremble in anticipation. I hoped they didn’t, because if he kissed me, I was lost. I wanted to be lost, in him…naked flesh to naked flesh, moving together, hip to hip, joined as one in a dance as old as humanity.

  Fighting it, I drew in a breath for strength. “You mistake me again,” I whispered. “It’s not your looks I have issue with.”

  His lips smiled, almost touching mine. “My ungentlemanly conduct?”

  “No, your lazy journalism.”

  He stilled, then blinked and drew back an inch to see my face better.

  “That’s what you’re meant to do, isn’t it?” I said. “Investigate the facts before jumping to conclusions and printing—or speaking—lies? The simplest of research will furnish you with the details of the life and death of the late Reverend Gideon Darke of St. John’s parish, Bethnal Green. He wasn’t much of a Society man, but he was most definitely my husband. I very much doubt your journal is worth reading.”

  Surprise had slackened his grip. It was easy to push past him, narrowly avoiding his candlestick, take the two steps and walk on down the passage towards my own room. After a moment, I heard a breath of something that might have been laughter.

  “Check and mate to you, Mrs. Darke,” he said. “Good night.”

  I didn’t trouble to answer him. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could. My whole body trembled with reaction, both to the powerful lust I’d managed to deny myself and the pain of throwing him Gideon’s name simply to score points. I wasn’t sure I liked winning this game. So far. One way or another, I doubted very much that it was over.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke with a start, gasping aloud. Although my mind was still hazy with sleep, I knew there were spirits close to me in the darkness. Between my thighs, I recognized the hot, tingling dampness of arousal, but I was too tired to gather the confused, torn, and fading scraps of dreams together. Some insubstantial thing was sliding against my mind, my person, trying to enter, or re-enter. The spirits in the darkness with me—I thought there was more than one—weren’t the remains of the dead, they were like sentient pockets of emotion built up over years, centuries until they had being and will of their own.