Into the Gloaming

by Mercy Celeste

  “Because she’s Irish,” Austin muttered. “They looked down on the Irish. But those pesky nuevo riche peasants and their childbearing hips.”

  “Don’t let Donna hear you say that. She’s still pissed about Rory’s little rant last night.” Jemma put down the album and rummaged around in the container for the tissue wrapped Bible.

  “Well, he’s Irish, and he’s not wrong.” Austin didn’t want to get into an argument about which ethnic group had it shittier in the New World. He looked at Jemma and decided not to bring up the First Peoples.

  “And neither is she,” Jemma mumbled under her breath while she flipped through the bible.

  “I didn’t say she was.” Austin rubbed his eyes again and leaned back in the chair. “She’s pregnant.”

  Jemma looked at him, shock and outrage warring in her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  He thought about what he’d said and what they’d been talking about… and… oh. “Not Donna, I mean, how would I know if she’s…” he pointed to the journal, “The wife, the one they’re pinning their hopes of saving the collective family assets from the poor house until they marry off the oldest daughter. I mean, they are about to arrange the poor girl’s betrothal and she’s barely thirteen. And our Mr. Cortlandt is walking around with the face of a dead man, so this one had to take because that Heath died on Christmas Eve 1917 and it’s now May of that year. So, what the hell was her name, and what happened to her?”

  He didn’t mention that he had it on good authority that the woman died in childbirth, and he assumed that meant the child had as well.

  Jemma stopped scowling at him as someone turned up Christmas music in the front of the house ruining his nice peaceful day off, spent leisurely poring over ledgers and journals because this family was driving him insane. As were the people staying underfoot, and his… well, Rory. And now this one-percenter, with his Harvard education and precise speech and tailored clothing that fit his body in a way that made Austin’s brain melt, was all up in his business… with another man’s face.

  “Amelia,” Jemma said as she switched from the bible to a different book. “Oh, wow, that’s… weirdly coincidental.”

  “What?” Austin asked after she paused too long. She shuffled through yellowed newspaper clippings that needed to be preserved and held one out to Austin.

  “Read it yourself,” she said, waving the delicate paper under his nose.

  Austin took it carefully and spread it out on the table. The photo was the same as the one hanging on the front landing, but an actual photograph, instead of a painting. The painting would have been made from the photograph, he realized. The print was small and slightly smudged. He turned on the lamp next to his station and picked up the magnifying glass he kept on the table.

  “Mr. H.C. Cortlandt announces the marriage of his son Heathcliff Charles Cortlandt, the third, age 18, to Amelia Johanna Cortlandt, age 16. Mrs. Cortlandt is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Callaghan of Savannah. The bride and groom will honeymoon in Savannah. Mr. Cortlandt, the third will return to take his father’s place as manager of Cortlandt Lumber.”

  He finished reading the short and just the facts, ma’am, wedding announcement and read it again. “Oh, wow. I wonder.”

  “There were probably hundreds of Callaghans in Savannah back then. There are still probably hundreds of Callaghans. Savannah had more Irish per capita than any other city in the south, except maybe New Orleans.” Jemma returned the article to the protective covering she’d pulled it from. “But it’s damned strange if you ask me.”

  “Very,” Austin agreed. “Rory’s father’s name is Mick. Which is a nickname for Michael.”

  “Bet there are fifteen Michael Callaghans in the Savannah phone book right now.”

  “You’d be wrong.” Austin closed the journal and slid it into the middle of the table where he’d be less tempted to continue reading.

  “Really? You think so?” Jemma packed her work and returned it all to the crate. “You’re so certain, you’re sitting over there looking smug. Like it isn’t easy enough to check.”

  “You think so?” Austin tried to bite back the laugh that tickled his throat. He’d never been good at messing with people and she hadn’t figured out what made this whole thing so funny. “Go find a current Savannah phone book and prove it then. Go on. I’ll wait.”

  She held out her finger. The one she loved to use to hammer home a point. It was blunt and sturdy and would probably hurt like a bitch if she got around to poking him with it. Her mouth opened on a retort just as her eyes went wide, and realization dawned. “They don’t make phone books anymore, do they?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I haven’t seen one in years. Not since we all carry around a computer in our pockets now. Those things became obsolete.” He stopped for a moment, something from the journal striking him funny. “She called the telephone, a hellophone. The journalist. Culla. They were wealthy people, even with the fortune dwindling. Back then the height of luxury was a telephone and a horseless carriage. And they had neither. The nephew rode the trolley to the mills he managed.”

  Jemma leafed through the list of artifacts. “There is a brougham listed here. It’s been restored and is due to be delivered on Monday. It’s very ornate. And large. Seating six. It would have needed four horses to pull it. There was a barouche, smaller, for the family to travel about town when the weather was nice. But it was sold. There’s a receipt for the sale in 1912.”

  Austin nodded. “Sounds about right. She wrote that the family stopped venturing far from the family lands not long after one of the stable boys went missing. HC, as she called him, became concerned about safety as the city grew around them.”

  “I believe the youngest child might have been mentally deficient.” Jemma flipped through a photo album. “In the painting upstairs, the little girl looks fine. Like a younger version of the other girl. Golden hair in ringlets. Pretty face. But look at this. It’s the same as the painting.”

  She handed over the album, open to the page showing a black and white family portrait. The boy had sad eyes, the same as in the portrait, the older girl was petite and delicate with light-colored hair and eyes. Her mother would have had blue eyes. Heath had had blue eyes… both Heaths had… have… fuck… he has the same shade of bluish-gray eyes as the ghost Heath and that was unsettling. “Anyway… the younger daughter was not pale of hair nor was she delicate, petite, or cute as a button… Downs Syndrome you think?”

  Jemma pursed her lips, a look of concentration screwing up her pretty face. “Looks like. It’s hard to tell really, she’s looking away from the camera. Must have been hell getting her to stay still long enough. And she’s blurry around the edges. The portrait artist must have been told to make her look like a tiny version of the first one. I doubt they allowed her to be seen in public. But I can’t be sure. She’s definitely… how do I put it delicately…”

  “Mentally deficient summed it up nicely. And would explain why the aunt couldn’t run roughshod over her like she did the older niece. The little girl had taken to sleeping outside according to the last entry.” Austin controlled his anger at what the child must have gone through. “The woman needed to be beaten for what she did to that child.”

  “What child?” A new voice entered their conversation. Making Jemma jump. And maybe Austin did, too. He covered by peeling off the one glove he wore, with some difficulty, just as the current owner of the Cortlandt property, and face, walked into the room, a small crate of books in his arms. A dust-covered crate that Austin had never seen before.

  “What you got there, He— Mr. Cortlandt?” He winced at his stumble. He wanted to call the man by his given name but he wasn’t sure it… well, he just wasn’t ready to give that name to another man. Even if the man was born with that name.

  He flashed to the night the fantasy Heath had all but carried him up the back stairs to a bedroom and… he felt his face flush.

  “Heath, please, it’s so strange to be call
ed Mister anything by contemporaries.” The man placed the crate on the worktable beside the one they’d just packed up. He looked just as flushed as Austin felt, and maybe just as dusty as the crate. “I found this in the attic. I thought the house had been thoroughly searched and cleaned. But there’s a room up there that’s filled with crates and some furniture.”

  Austin was out of his chair, and on his feet before he could stop himself. Heath caught his elbow as he rushed past. “It’s dark up there. There isn’t any electricity in that room. It’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Austin blinked, rapidly. His vision going blurry as his brain slowed to a crawl. He could feel Heath’s hand burning through his shirt and sweater. It was like… molten lava flowing through his veins. He blinked again, dragging his gaze away from the hand on his arm to stare out the windows. “When did it get dark?”

  “When you were still immersed in your Edwardian era soap opera,” Jemma said from the far side of the room where she was storing the equipment, they’d used that afternoon.

  “Well, 1917 isn’t technically the Edwardian Era. Technically, it’s the era during the first world war, but—”

  “But America was still holding out of the war and the styles of the Edwardian Era were still in full swing.” Jemma cut him off with logic. “The so-called Gilded Age ending. And yes, you’re obsessing just a wee bit. Considering we were supposed to be off work today. It being New Year’s Eve, and all.”

  “Is it really only the 31st? I swear this has been the longest week in the history of ever.” Heath, the living, said exactly what Austin was thinking. He’d lost track of the days, but he had an excuse. Sort of. Heath… Mr. Cortland… not so much.

  “You have no idea,” Austin replied, his brain slow to react, with Heath’s… Mr. Cortland’s… hand on him. The contact short-circuited, well, everything. “I was almost hit by a car on Christmas Eve. I feel a little like I’ve missed this holiday.”

  Heath looked surprised to find his hand still on Austin, as if he hadn’t meant to touch him at all, much less hang on while the heat between them built to an inferno. Releasing Austin’s arm quickly, Heath wouldn’t meet his gaze as he rolled down his shirtsleeves and brushed away the cobwebs he found on his elbow.

  “Not much to miss, we worked, it’s been very wintery. We didn’t do any kind of secret Santa. Or my favorite… Dirty Santa. Emphasis on dirty.” Donna interrupted as she carried in another crate. She looked just as dusty as Heath. “And now it’s New Year’s Eve and there’s nothing to do in this Podunk town to celebrate.”

  “Rory is having a big thing tonight. They’ve been cooking all day. And I’ve seen at least three beer trucks parked out front.” Britney joined them. She dropped her gloves and dusting cloth on the worktable and collapsed into a chair. “He said to come. He’ll give us free drinks.”

  Donna lifted an arm and sniffed her pit. “Ugh, after a shower. I feel like I have spiders in strange places. If I wasn’t working on an archeology degree I’d be pissed.”

  “Our very own Indiana Jones.” Heath smiled and wrapped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug, “She was fearless up there. I didn’t think I’d survive. I am not fond of spiders. At. All.”

  “Dude! Seriously?” Donna sounded like she would tear him a new hole for being handsy. She just laughed and draped herself over him like a shawl. “It was fun. I didn’t know there would be any actual exploring haunted house moments when we got here. It was probably the best afternoon yet.”

  “I was wondering where y’all had snuck off to. Next time y’all go exploring, invite me along. I was so bored I cleaned things. Which, by the way, is not what I signed up for.” Austin saw the flash in Britney’s eyes, a tiny spark of something that he couldn’t quite interpret. Jealousy. Anger… lust. He felt it all clutch at his gut. He had to remind himself that this man wasn’t… his.

  “Just so long as the next time anyone goes exploring, they don’t do it in one of the upstairs bedrooms, those quilts are a pain in the ass to wash. Just sayin’,” Jemma said, her eyes flashing her disapproval and the hugging couple stepped apart. They looked mildly guilty and completely rebuked. As if Jemma was the boss who’d caught them sneaking out for a quickie. “I think we’re done here for the night. If someone would make sure the house is locked and turn off the lights. That would be awesome.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, boss lady.” Donna gave her a one-finger salute and hauled off to do what Jemma had suggested. Maybe the door slamming somewhere near Austin’s office wasn’t because she was pissed off.

  “Yeah, Jemma, technically, you can kiss our ass,” Britney said, glaring sideways at the other woman, she grabbed two coats from the rack and hurried to catch up with her girlfriend.

  Heath just stood there watching everyone, a bemused smile tilting one corner of his mouth. “Ah, I suspect this is my fault.”

  “You think?” Jemma said, stabbing her hands into her outside gloves. “I mean…” she sighed and closed her eyes. “Not really. You’re the boss. I’m not. I’m just here for the break. But…”

  “But… you are being a bit too familiar with the female staff is what she’s trying to say.” Austin leaned against the door frame, watching Jemma try to get her anger sorted. “They’re all up for permanent jobs here this summer. And you’re the person who does the final hiring. And Donna is… well, it looked like something it probably wasn’t, but it still looked like you are showing favoritism. And… uh… setting yourself up for a possible sexual harassment complaint. Not that I think that’s what that was. But… just… don’t lay hands on people you’re… why am I saying this? You know this. And… I. Am. So. Fired.”

  Heath’s eyes narrowed as his face drained of color. He raked a dusty hand through hair that might have a few cobwebs in it. “I’m… yeah. I didn’t think about that. She’s… and I’m… and… we’re… not hooking up. And it was just the attic and the thrill of finding hidden treasure.” He let out a long breath, his eyes connecting with Austin’s. “I’m… gay. It’s… wasn’t sexual.”

  Jemma glanced Austin’s direction; the fire gone from her eyes. “Regardless, it still looked bad.”

  “Or you’re jealous.” Austin waited two breaths before saying what he thought. And not about Heath… he tried not to show any emotion over that… not that it was much of a bombshell. He’d hoped. Based on the ghost Heath. But… he hadn’t let himself truly believe.

  “Over them?” Jemma snorted, the sound very unladylike. “I didn’t come here to hook up. If that’s what they want, then fine. Not my circus, not my monkeys. And I’m not jealous of you and Rory either… so maybe wake up and see what’s right in front of you before you go tossing around accusations.” Jemma stormed past, grabbing her things. And this time he heard a door slam.

  Austin leaned back against the wall and thumped his head against the plaster. “This is not what I signed up for… seems to about cover it,” he whispered, mostly from frustration.

  “Is there a complaint lodged in there?” Heath twirled a scarf around his neck, the stuffed shirt businessman back now that the fun had been sucked out with all the door slamming.

  Leaning back, Austin closed his eyes and counted to ten. His head ached slightly. The banging hadn’t helped any. His arm hurt. Probably from trying to use it all day and not keeping it elevated like he was supposed to. “No… not really. I’m not a people person. Or maybe I am… I just don’t like a lot of drama. There’s been nothing but drama since they arrived.”

  “From what I’ve seen, most of it has been caused by you, or, rather, because of you.” Heath was closer now. Austin could feel his heat. He could smell his cologne. And the familiar scent of… no, there wasn’t a single thing that could be classified as familiar about this man, other than his name and his face. This wasn’t the man he’d fallen for.

  He forced himself off the wall. And stepped into Heath’s arms… by accident. Heath grunted at the slight impact. He didn’t step away. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even
blink. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Austin… to steady him. At least that’s what Austin told himself when he slipped his arms around the man’s waist. He rubbed his nose along Heath’s collarbone, the broadcloth of his shirt smelling so very… unfamiliar.

  He looked up the inch into Heath’s eyes and tried to remember that this person was not… but something was there. Looking out of eyes that were exactly the same. The same color. The same shape. The same dark lashes. The same… trembling need… he’d seen that night just before he’d…

  Heath cleared his throat and stepped back, quickly. Almost too quickly. Austin stumbled forward and had to catch himself on the back of the chair.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, because… he had no idea why. Sorry for sniffing him. For falling into his arms. For… thinking he was someone who might not have been real, to begin with. “I didn’t realize you were so close.”

  He turned to head out of the workroom to get his coat from his office, but Heath stood in his way. The same startled look on his face. His hand, so very large and warm, against Austin’s face. Austin hadn’t blinked, hadn’t seen him move. But there they stood, with Heath’s hand gently cupping his cheek. His breath shallow, and a bit ragged. Austin stepped closer, leaning into the hand on his face. Craving the warmth… and touch.

  “Are you real?” Heath asked the question.

  “I was going to ask you the same…” Austin stopped talking because there was nothing he could say that didn’t sound crazy.

  Tilting his face up, Austin let his eyes drift half-closed. He had to see him. He had to know. Heath did the same, leaning over slightly, his long lashes drifting closed as his mouth found Austin’s.

  He gasped at the touch of Heath’s lips to his. Electricity sizzling between them. Or seemed to. Heath whimpered and Austin opened his mouth, his one good arm going around Heath’s neck to pull him closer. Heath whimpered again. Austin felt the wall against his back, he had no idea how he ended up pushed against it. Again. Heath’s hands traced his jawline. His thumbs weren’t rough. Not like they’d been that night. They weren’t soft either. He smelled like fabric softer and expensive cologne. His mouth tasted of coffee and peppermint, probably one of the candy canes left over from last week.