The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  I even saw him through her eyes, a younger, more carefree version of the saturnine man I knew. It seemed he’d dazzled her too.

  “Are you…Rose?” I asked her. I wasn’t sure I wanted her to be, and had no intention of looking into why, right now.

  “Rose,” she repeated intensely. “Yes, Rose, that was me.”

  Perhaps I should have stuck to my plan to persuade her to find Martin for me, but she seemed very wrapped up in her own experience, and besides, her story might well be relevant to Martin’s. So I soothed both of us with calming breaths and asked, “How did you die, Rose?”

  Immediately, a thousand images bombarded me: the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning fall forming a kind of background to pictures from her life that flashed through her to me so fast I couldn’t distinguish them. A lot of them were her self-images. A lot of them seemed to contain Patrick, though I couldn’t see his expression or what he was doing.

  “I fell,” she whispered. “From here. My brains were dashed out.”

  I swallowed, trying not to think of that. But she’d said, “I fell,” as if it hadn’t been of her own volition. It seemed Patrick was right that she hadn’t taken her own life… If she was being truthful; dead people lied just as much as live ones, and for just as complex reasons.

  “How did you fall?” I asked her. “Were you ill? Did you stumble?”

  She didn’t want to think about it, and I didn’t blame her. She even closed my eyes and wriggled my bottom uncomfortably on the hard floor.

  “Rose?” I prompted her.

  “Patrick,” she whispered, and then again in a wail that chilled my blood. “Patrick!”

  “Rose, Rose, don’t be upset,” I tried to soothe her as she all but blasted her way out of me. “Help me to discover the truth. Please! I can carry messages to and from you if you just talk to me some more.”

  I heard the hint of desperation in my own voice, knew it wasn’t good, but my solitude up here wasn’t guaranteed forever, and I was very aware of passing time.

  “Rose.” I held out my hand in supplication. “Please talk to me again. Please.” I was striving towards her, calling her with every ounce of will I had. I didn’t even feel the arrival of the uninvited until it crashed into me with a jolt, spilling into every part of me, cold, malevolent, familiar. My soulless, sentient bag of emotion from last night. I should have been ready for it, but I wasn’t. And I couldn’t control it and speak to Rose at the same time.

  Rose wasn’t staying. I felt her and the other ghosts withdrawing from me in distaste as the thing pushed me onto my back, zipping through all the most intimate places of my mind and body.

  “Rose,” I gasped. “Please stay, just wait… ” With an effort, I tried to heave the thing out of me, but during my distraction,it had got too strong a grip on me. I had to let Rose go, release the last strand of invisible cord that had bound her to my world, and concentrate all my attention on expelling my uninvited guest.

  It was stroking inside my body, whispering not words but images of physical love, dragging my hips off the floor, thrusting them up and down in simulation of the act, while the rest of my body writhed both in response to the internal caresses and to escape them. Inevitably, the lust of the thing within me was mine too, absorbed into my lonely frustration and my desperate needs, my memories of all the delights I had once enjoyed, and all I longed to know again. I was gasping, sweating with it, fighting my own temptation as much as the violation.

  But I was winning.

  Until, with utter shock, my glazed eyes saw the sardonic face of Patrick Haggard above me.

  “Oh no,” I moaned, praying it was illusion, something the uninvited had found in my mind. I paid for my distraction. With triumph, the thing seized back full control, driving my thrusting, writhing body across the floor.

  I heard my name. I felt hands take my shoulders, trying to hold me still. I drowned in Patrick’s dark, dark eyes, horrified and yet on some terrible level rejoicing in his nearness.

  A hint of uncertainty, of anxiety, lurked behind his superior contempt at my behaviour. My body pushed up, connecting with the entire length of his, and my arms wrapped around his neck. I wanted to curl up and die of humiliation. My breasts rubbed against the hardness of his chest, the juncture of my thighs found the growing hardness in his trousers and I moaned again, from shame and burning need, biting down on my lips to prevent the course, ugly words for what I wanted spilling out of my mouth. I was weeping with effort and with pain and humiliation, and yet my eyes were caught by his mouth, and I was enchanted.

  There was an instant of stillness, of silence. If I didn’t look in his eyes, I didn’t have to know he despised me. There was only his fine, hard body fitting so perfectly against mine, his bulging erection pressing between my thighs, sweet, arousing… I could see every tiny crease in his parted lips. They moved, saying something I could neither hear nor comprehend. I wished he would kiss me, just once.

  Oh God, not like this… I tried to hide the thought, to throw myself backwards and give myself time to expel the vile thing within me. But it knew. No sooner had I jerked back than it lunged forward, and caught Patrick’s mouth with mine.

  My clenched fists opened wide. The thing swept my tongue between Patrick’s lips, and teeth, kissing with avid, sensual hunger. And he tasted wonderful…a hint of wine, and the strong earthiness I associated with men, all overlaid by something uniquely him.

  I don’t know which of us was more stunned. But God help me, it was blissful.

  After an instant of shocked stillness, Patrick’s arms came tight around me, holding me to his body, and his mouth opened wide, kissing me back, taking control. And astonishingly, rather than killing what was left of my poor, lust-torn will, the kiss gave me the strength I needed. Perhaps because this was one kiss I wanted, needed so badly to be mine.

  With a muffled cry of anger, I hurled the uninvited guest from my body at last and slammed down the shutters. Then, curling my fingers around the tangled hair at the back of his neck, I kissed Patrick Haggard all on my own.

  Well, he had a lot to do with it. He was not a passive lover. His hunger seemed to match mine, his mouth twisting my lips, his tongue and his teeth caressing.

  So this, I thought, is how he kisses. With his whole body, not just his mouth. His fingers moved in my hair, his arms on my back. His knee slid between my legs, caressing as his hips stroked mine, searching for the position he wanted.

  I’d known he would be fierce and dominating, but I wasn’t prepared for the sheer, overwhelming sensuality. There was deep, exciting passion in this man that promised new and wonderful pleasures…

  One of his hands stroked my naked thigh, for my dress was completely rucked up, crushed to one side between us. My back bumped back down on the floor, allowing his other hand to sweep down over my shoulder to my covered breast, his fingers slipping and caressing their way to naked skin. I pushed into his hand, almost exploding when the rough pads of his fingertips glided over my nipple.

  “Here?” he all but panted against my lips. “Here on the attic floor?”

  Oh God yes, wild and urgent and untamed. Now, now, my body screamed, far louder even than the uninvited who’d started all this off.

  Damn and damn and damn! I closed my eyes tight and with a sob of pain and rage and helpless loss, I tore my mouth free.

  “Not here,” I whispered. “Not anywhere. That wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.” I could bear that even less than I could endure the frustration and disappointment about to come my way. I forced my eyes open, directly into his still hot yet baffled gaze. “This fever is not natural,” I said helplessly.

  “It’s damned natural to me,” he growled.

  “Not to me. It wasn’t me.” I tried to push him off me, and then felt the loss with a sense of desolation as he moved the weight of his wonderful body off mine. But he didn’t release me entirely, j
ust helped to sit up, his face frowning.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, feeling my sweat-dampened forehead. There was doubt in his dark, still clouded eyes, but also genuine anxiety. I thought my heart would break.

  “Sort of,” I whispered, desperate now only to escape this dreadful situation. “I have to go.”

  “Sh-sh, just wait a moment,” he said with unexpected gentleness that almost undid me. Worse, he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and actually wiped my brow with it. My hand trembled as I all but snatched it from him to finish the job and dash it across my eyes and mouth.

  “I’m not myself,” I said shakily. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shall I call Emily to you? Or Mrs. Grant?”

  “God, no,” I said with unnecessary fervency.

  His eyebrows shot up, but he made no comment, merely drew me to my feet while keeping one arm around my waist. I had to hold myself stiff as a board to avoid relaxing into it with gratitude.

  “You mustn’t be seen with me,” I said as we left the attic. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

  By way of reply, he only dropped my shawl around my shoulders. I hadn’t remembered it falling it off, nor him picking it up. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t think I could, as we made our way downstairs, along a quiet corridor that led to a different set of stairs I hadn’t come across yet, another long passage and a few steps and we emerged around the corner to his bedroom door.

  My stomach lurched, but before I could even breathe, let alone object, he opened the door, pulled me inside, and closed it again, the fingers of his free hand pressed to my lips. His powerful arm still held me around the waist. The heat from his body was immense, both comforting and terrifying.

  “Forgive the abduction,” he said wryly. “We can’t talk in your room. It’s opposite Miss Salton’s, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “Sit down,” he said, pushing me into the armchair by the fireplace. A moment later, he wrapped my fingers around a fine crystal glass of dark liquid. “Brandy. I think you need a sip or two.”

  I thought he was close to the truth. I knocked the whole thing back and breathed out, feeling it burn its way down to my stomach.

  “Shock value,” I murmured, catching his half-amused observation.

  “Is that what this is about? Shocking me?”

  “I meant the brandy’s effect on me. Why would I want to shock you?”

  “For being mean during the conversation you overheard in the library.”

  Damn him. I looked him in the eye with defiance. “What conversation?”

  “The one just before I saw your black lace disappear around the large drawing room door. Your scent is subtle as well as beautiful, but it lingers.”

  “I don’t use perfume,” I said with dignity.

  “I didn’t say you were wearing any.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Haggard?”

  “It seemed appropriate if a little late, considering our intimacy in the attic.”

  Of course he wouldn’t let it go. I couldn’t expect him to. I stared at my glass. A bottle clinked against the rim, refilling it. I heard another glassful being poured, and then he swung a hard chair around from its place at a desk and sat astride it, facing me, with his arms resting along its back, and took a thoughtful sip.

  He said, “What were you doing in the attic?”

  I gave a slightly crooked smile. “You’re not going to like my answer to that.”

  “As long as it’s honest,” he said evenly, “I’ll put up with it.”

  “Very well. It seemed the best place to communicate with the spirit of the young man who died.”

  His eyes dropped from mine. I had the sense I’d disappointed him. “And was it?” he asked tonelessly.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure there’s a good place. He didn’t speak to me.”

  “Did anyone?” he asked. Although his voice was gentle, there was steel beneath, a warning to me I couldn’t take. He’d asked for honesty, and in any case, I’d already decided to give him it. I wouldn’t hide. God knew I’d precious little left to hide from him in any case. On the other hand, I knew this would touch a tender spot, infuriate him. If he didn’t hate me already, he would for this.

  I nodded. “A spirit who said her name was Rose. I think she was your wife.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, woman, do you really expect me to believe that performance in the attic was my late wife possessing you?”

  “Good grief, no, don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. I took another sip of brandy. “She’d already left me, and I wasn’t fast enough to shut out the nasty things that lurk in the darkness.”

  His gaze was riveted to my face. “I see.” He took a gulp of brandy and lowered his glass. “So, it was a nasty, lurking thing from the darkness that kissed me and rubbed its admittedly delectable body against me?”

  I flushed as I’m sure he knew I would. But I didn’t break our locked gaze. “Yes. Although the lips and the body were mine, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” Again, he took a sip. “I must be a devilishly attractive fellow.”

  “I suppose you must.” I managed to keep my voice even at least, and I didn’t look away from that mocking, impersonal stare.

  The silence stretched out between us. But I knew he hadn’t finished. I didn’t need ability to read the seething emotion inside him to tell that. It was in his hard, stormy eyes, the uncompromising set of his mouth. I saw, with sinking heart, that although he’d asked for it, he still wasn’t ready for the truth.

  I tried to give him it anyway. “I’m sorry you saw it. If I could have spared you, I would. As it is, I must live with the humiliation, you with the distaste.”

  One black eyebrow shot up. “Distaste?” he repeated. “My dear lady, it was the most arousing thing I’ve ever seen. I congratulate you.”

  My face flamed. There was nothing I could say. He had been aroused. I’d felt it jutting through my clothes.

  He stirred and let the half-empty glass dangle at his side.

  “Very well, Mrs. Darke, since you won’t take the opportunity I’ve given you, let me present to you another scenario. You went up to the attic because it was a suitably atmospheric place and you knew of two people who had recently died by falling from there under mysterious circumstances. And of course, because you knew I’d seen you and would follow. You probably watched, or at least listened, for my approach, and then you began your little show—which would, you know, add a valuable dimension to your mother’s little soirees.”

  At least the two of you agree on that. The flippant response stuck in my throat, because all I could really comprehend was how little he thought of me. Beneath the sparring and the desire and the odd, surface kindness lay nothing but the contempt that had been there the night he walked into my mother’s séance.

  “Isn’t that the real truth, Mrs. Darke?” he pursued relentlessly. “At least admit that much.”

  I found I was staring at my glass so hard that my eyes were watering. At least I assumed that was the reason. I blinked and set the glass down on the arm of the chair. Suddenly, I was very, very tired.

  “Of course,” I said, rising to my feet. “That is the real truth. Good night, Mr. Haggard.”

  I walked straight past him without looking, opened the door, and went out, remembering to close it quietly behind me before I began the walk back to my own room, longing for the blessed oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Of course, I couldn’t settle to sleep. Instead, I retired to bed with the journal Patrick had given me. It was called the Voice and seemed to be a mixture of political and social commentary. The editor was named as Patrick Haggard, who was also the author of several of the articles.

  Prepared to be unimpressed, or so I told myself, I flicked through the pages, w
hich discussed everything from a strike in a Manchester mill to foreign relations. Although the titles were innocuous enough, a lot of the content was guaranteed to appal the establishment, the rich, and the comfortable, without actually breaking any laws. Bela’s words about Patrick wanting to educate the rich came back to me; that was the purpose of his journal, because unless you wished to invite the violence of the late revolutions we’d just seen all over Europe, change had to come from the already powerful.

  So, although I only meant to glance through the book for an insight into the enigma that was Patrick Haggard, I ended up reading every word of every one of his articles.

  I’d been right. Patrick was an angry man, and that anger shone through his flowing, evocative prose in a way guaranteed to provoke a response. Injustice, inhumanity, cruelty, poverty, all offended him and were lambasted with devastating clarity, compassion, and a hint of humour. Sometimes these attacks came as part of a study of a particular subject. Sometimes the attacks were the subject, supported by an array of examples. His criticism wasn’t reserved solely for his own government. The reactionary forces of Europe, which had so recently defeated the hope of reform, got special treatment, while comments on British affairs always stopped just short of sedition. I thought he had legal help there—Henry Faversham, I wondered?—to avoid being shut down. But he must have come very close to the edge.

  I couldn’t hate him. Many of his causes had been close to Gideon’s heart too—the health and education of the poor to begin with—and he argued that that education should be the qualification for the vote, not property or age or class or gender.

  I suspected he’d been a Chartist before the movement fell into disrepute.

  When I’d read the last page, I put the book down on my bedside table and blew out the candle. I lay staring up at the darkness.

  So he wrote well. Very well. And he cared, deeply. He was using his undoubted gifts to bring injustices to people’s attention, to provoke change. It all provided me with another glimpse into another facet of his character. But it didn’t bring me any closer to understanding him, or my response to him.