by Ed Gorman
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Sophia," Lucien said when she paused to draw breath, "if I've caused you or my cousins any fright. But I do think the experience of seeing the ghost or hearing the hoofbeats is much less frightening if one is prepared. Imagine the shock one might feel if he were to see a bloodstained, headless apparition floating outside his window at midnight if he didn't know the legend."
"Nonsense!" Lady Bane declared. "We've spent Christmas here these past three years and more. Why have we never heard this legend before now?"
"If I may offer an explanation, Aunt Sophia?" Lucien said. "Only one section of The Abbey is haunted— beneath the chambers you occupy. No one is ever disturbed in any other part of the house, so we did not wish to frighten you with the tale. But since you wished to have the rooms nearest the north tower—"
"Oh! So this is my fault is it? Well, I'll tell you why we are just now hearing of your ghost, my good fellow! Because some who've never been here before this year have invented tales. Outsiders!" She rounded on me, pointing. "It's you!"
She received a chorus of approval from her offspring. I quailed before them, but then I felt the earl's large hand on my shoulder. I winced a bit as he touched a bruise, and his hand shifted slightly. At that moment I became aware that the room had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at the earl, whose face was a mask of cold fury.
"Are you assuming that my wife's son has no place in our family?" he asked icily. "I assure you, Sophia, he is not an outsider here. Lucien thinks of Edward as his brother, and I as my son. Indeed, there are blood relations I would much liefer disown— and may."
I could hardly believe my own ears, which were soon assaulted.
"No offense meant!" Lord Bane shouted. I was sure he'd spoken loudly enough to startle the villagers from their beds several miles away.
The earl, however, appeared not to have heard him. "Perhaps, Sophia, you would find Christmas in Town more to your liking."
"La!" she said nervously, "how you do take one up! Prefer Christmas in London to being with family— indeed, no! Bane is right— I meant no offense. Lucien's lurid tale has quite overset me!"
With that, she snapped at her children, telling them it was long past time for them to be abed, remonstrated with the governess for not having seen to it, and said, "Bane!" in a commanding tone that had her husband soon bidding all a good night.
"You too should be in bed, Edward," my mother said.
"Time we all were," my stepfather said. "Go on up if you like, my dear. I shall have a brief word with the boys before I retire."
As soon as she had left, the earl turned to Lucien and said in a lazy voice, "I trust Act III of your little drama will be staged later this evening?" Despite his tone I could see the amusement in his eyes, and for the first time, I perceived a likeness between the earl and his son that went beyond Lucien's physical resemblance to his father.
"Tomorrow evening, sir. Tonight would be too soon. They are Banes, and being such, need time to think."
"You frighten me far more than your telling of the legend did— though I credit you with an admirable performance."
Lucien bowed again. "I had an excellent teacher."
The earl gave a sudden shout of laughter. "Impossible boy!"
"Again, sir—"
"No, don't say I taught you to be such an impudent hellion, for I'll swear I did not!"
"Then I shall say nothing, sir— except— except— thank you, sir!"
" 'Tis the other way 'round, I believe." The earl turned back to me and gently lifted my chin. "I see I have been remiss in your education, Edward. Or perhaps— yes— Lucien, you must teach your brother to be handy with his fives." He paused. "Lady Rolingbroke need not be apprised of it."
"Thank you, sir!" I said.
"Oh, I demand a high price! If you fail to rid me of the Banes, you and that makebait Lucien will be served gruel for Christmas dinner— by whatever headless monk I can find to take it to the dungeon!"
* * *
We were destined to eat a sumptuous feast. Before Lucien and I sought our beds, he enlisted my aid in creating a few hoofbeats along the secret passages near each of the Banes' bedchambers. Henry had awakened to feel a ghostly presence in the form of a room that was suddenly terribly cold, not knowing that Lucien had merely left the entrance to one of the draftiest passages open for a time.
We left it at that. The next morning, of course, we denied hearing anything like hoofbeats. When Henry swore he had felt the ghost but no other member of his family told a similar tale, Lucien grew thoughtful. "I wonder why he would single you out?"
This made Henry go very pale and ask again if no one else had felt a bit chilly last night.
No one had, of course. The earl went so far as to say he had rarely slept so well.
Lady Bane was perhaps made suspicious by this remark, for she gave her husband a speaking look and asked him to accompany her into the village. Henry was rather quiet that day, if a little jumpy. William, owing to the increased watchfulness of several footmen and others, did not have any chances to harm me that morning. He later confided to us that Lord and Lady Bane had found the villagers ready to repeat all the salient points of the legend and in many cases to enlarge upon it. After hearing something of this at luncheon, the earl strode up to Lucien and me as we were on our way to the stables. "Lucien, dear boy, I take it I am going to be generous to my tenants this Boxing Day?"
"Extremely, sir. But it should interest you to know that Aunt Sophia's dresser has told Bogsley that she doesn't expect the Banes to remain in this, er 'accursed place' another day."
"Don't tell me you've enlisted my staid butler in your schemes? I'd think it beneath Bogsley's dignity."
Lucien seemed to ponder before answering. "Perhaps, Father, it would be best not to inquire too closely on some matters."
"Good God!" the earl declared and walked away seeming shaken.
The following night I helped again with hoofbeats, and later to make howling sounds as Lucien— and Fibbens— contrived to swing a headless "apparition" past their windows. Bogsley had recommended the village seamstress who made the monk. Each Bane caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of this phantom, but judging from the pandemonium, this glimpse was more effective than a full night's haunting. The Banes, looking haggard, were on the road to London before noon, swearing never to return to The Abbey.
The earl declared it the most delightful Christmas gift his son had ever bestowed upon him, causing my mother a great deal of puzzlement.
* * *
As we grew older I learned how rare a gift I had received in Lucien's affection for me and saw how infrequently he troubled himself to form friendships. He nevertheless grew into a man who was invited everywhere. While his fortune, breeding, and rank might have guaranteed that in any case, there was a vast difference between the welcome Lucien was given by leading members of the haut ton and that afforded others. That I benefited from my connection to him is without doubt and was decried by Lord Henry Bane, Mr. William Bane, Miss Fanny Bane, and the Dowager Lady Sophia Bane, who made no less imposing a widow than a wife. Lucien's aunt might complain all she liked about "persons who were no blood relation" enjoying "privileges above their station," but she found few who paid heed to her.
Our parents died together in a carriage accident when Lucien was but twenty-two. He succeeded to his father's dignities and two years later married well. His wife was a young beauty with a handsome dowry, although his own wealth prevented anyone from imagining him a fortune hunter. Lucien, unlike so many of our order, married for love.
I was myself by no means penniless, provided for both by my late stepfather and, having come into an inheritance, through my mother's family. Not long after Lucien's wedding, feeling restless, I used some of my own fortune to buy colors and left for the Peninsular War to see what I could do to hamper Boney's efforts in Portugal and Spain. Lucien and I exchanged letters, and although the mail was not always reliable, his correspondence made my soldie
r's life easier to bear. The letters made me long to be home, of course. Of all of these, the most heart-rending was the one in which he told me of both the death of his wife and the birth of his son.
It was not his way to be effusive— either in grief or in joy— but in this letter he wrote a litany of all the small pleasures he would miss— hearing the soft rustle of her skirts as she entered the library while he read, watching her blush at an endearment, listening to her sing softly to herself as she walked through The Abbey gardens, unaware that he was near— and I came to a new understanding of how deeply he had cared for her. Beyond that one letter he never wrote to me again of her, though across the great distance between us I could sense his sadness.
Gradually, over the next two years, I began to see that he had found a new source of joy as well. Letter after letter gave the latest news of Charles Edward Rolingbroke, my nephew and godson. Lucien clearly doted on his heir. I saved these letters as I had every letter before, reading them again and again.
* * *
I next saw Lucien when he approached my bed in a dismal London hospital. He looked for me there after Ciudad Rodrigo. He had seen my name among the lists of wounded and used his influence to discover what had become of me. I heard someone say, "Captain, you've a visitor." I opened my eyes, and there stood Lucien, looking ridiculously worried. Delirious with fever, nevertheless I recognized him— at least for a few moments, when he seemed to me some last vision granted to me before dying. I was too weak even to speak to him and remember nothing more than smiling foolishly at him. Nor do I remember being moved from that place and taken to Rolingbroke House, his fashionable London residence. The quality of my care improved immeasurably, and eventually the fever subsided.
Though at last I no longer burned alive with it, I was still weak and somewhat confused about my change of circumstance. I knew I was in Lucien's home and fell asleep not long after a recollection came to me of Lucien arguing with a doctor, refusing to allow me to be bled. This was confirmed by the doctor when I awoke the next morning. He chuckled. "No, wouldn't let me bleed you, and offered to— how did he put it now? Oh yes, he promised to draw my own claret if I caused you to lose one more drop of yours. Well, my fine captain, I'd as soon fight Boney himself than cross swords with the earl." My wounds, he told me, would leave me with a few scars and a permanent limp. "But only two days ago I tried to convince his lordship that your funeral service should be arranged, so you are in far better case than expected."
Not much later Lucien himself came into my room, under strict orders not to make his visit a long one. I told him I did not want to burden him with the care of a lame stepbrother who was weak as a cat and not of as much use.
"I shall fetch that doctor back," Lucien said, "and demand a return of his fee. He distinctly told me you were no longer delirious, but here you are, speaking utter nonsense!"
"Lucien—"
"No, wait! Tell me you aren't feverish, for I'm only allowed a short visit and I shall be driven mad by your nephew if he isn't allowed to at last lay eyes on his Uncle Edward."
"He's here?" I asked.
But my question was answered by the entrance of a small boy who, over his nursemaid's protests, opened the door and ran toward his father. He was the spit and image of Lucien. "Papa!"
"Your lordship," the flustered nurse said, "I beg your pardon! I'll take him right out again."
"Oh no, madam!" Lucien exclaimed in mock horror. "Leave him with me. My brother has seen enough warfare as it is."
She left us, and no sooner had the door closed than Charles's questions began.
Did I feel better? Yes.
Had I hurt my head? Yes, that was why I wore a bandage.
Had I hurt my leg, then, too? Yes.
Did a Frenchy hurt me? Yes.
He offered to send his father to hurt the Frenchy in return. I thanked him but said I would prefer we all just stayed home together for a time, for I had missed my brother, and would like to become acquainted with his son.
Why was my skin so brown? A soldier spends a great deal of time in the sun.
"That will do, Master Pokenose," Lucien said, causing his son to giggle. Obediently, though, Charles ceased asking questions. He sat quietly while Lucien discussed plans for removing to the countryside. Quite against my will I began to fall asleep. Charles brought this to his father's attention, which brought a rich laugh from Lucien. "Indeed, youngster, you are right. We'll let him rest for now."
I murmured an apology, stirring awake as I felt a small hand take my own.
"Papa says you're a great gun and we must help you to get better."
"My recovery is assured, then," I said, "but it is your papa who is the great gun."
Over the next three years, I would come to believe more and more in the truth of that statement. Fibbens was made my valet, a job that for some months involved the added duties of attending an invalid. I came to value him greatly. As my physical strength returned, though, it was Lucien and his son who would not allow me to retreat from the world. Charles's energetic encouragement and Lucien's refusal to permit me to mope over my injuries kept me from falling into a fit of the dismals. Before long I seldom thought so much of what I could not do as of what I could. Charles continued to delight me— I could not have been more attached to him if he had been my own boy.
On the night following Lucien's funeral, recalling my brother's life, I wondered how I would be able to comfort Charles over the days to come when the numbness I felt now would undoubtedly wear off.
When Lucien's horse, Fine Lad, had returned riderless to the stable three days earlier, a large group of men began a frantic search— servants, tenants, and neighbors. It was I who found him. I'd followed a route he often took through the woods when he rode for pleasure and discovered his motionless form along this path. He lay pale and bleeding beneath a shady tree— a thick, broken, bloodstained branch beside him. I did my best to staunch the wound on his head and to keep him warm even as I shouted for help.
All along the way back to The Abbey, the men who helped me carry him on a litter, and then to place him in a wagon, recounted several strange riding accidents of which they had heard. It was their way, I realized later, of trying to make sense of what seemed impossible— that Lucien, an excellent horseman, would be so careless while riding among low-hanging branches.
I had the broken branch with me, though, to prove it, as much to myself as anyone. And I would show it to Lucien, I vowed, and ask him what the devil he was about.
A fractured skull, the doctor said. Lucien never regained consciousness.
I knew the sort of blind rage that is the consort of our worst grief. I thought of burning the branch that had struck him. I thought of taking an axe to the tree, felling that which had felled him. I thought of shooting the horse.
I did none of these. Perhaps it was the horse's name that cleared my mind: Fine Lad.
Charles needed me.
That single thought cooled my rage.
Lucien's will made me Charles's guardian and trustee. I knew he did not merely want me to keep Charles's fortune safe and take care that he was sent to the best schools. I was to teach him what The Abbey meant to his family, what it meant to be the Earl of Rolingbroke, what he owed to his name, and owed to the memory of two good men who had held the same long list of titles before him. I had no fear that Charles would fail to be a credit to them— he was already so much his father's son.
* * *
That evening sitting before the fire remembering Lucien, I knew I would protect my young godson with my life. As the clock struck midnight, I vowed I would do my damnedest to keep Lucien alive in his memory.
I had no sooner made this vow than the library door flew open, startling me. Charles, pale and tearful, ran toward me, frantically calling my name. I opened my arms to him, taking him up on my lap and waving away the small army of concerned servants whose grasp he had eluded.
As the door to the library closed again, I tried to so
othe him. "What's wrong, nipperkin?" I asked, certain that I already knew the answer.
"Papa's alive again," Charles sobbed.
"What?" I said, thinking I must have misheard him.
"Papa's alive. But he was dead, and now he scares me."
Was this some strange manifestation of a child's grief, I wondered? "What do you mean, Charles?"
The boy shivered. "I mean I saw him. His ghost."
I sought an explanation. "You were sleeping—"
"It was not a dream!" he insisted, with a familiar obstinacy.
I hesitated, then asked, "Charles, have you been speaking to the Banes?" The odious family was there— the dowager, Henry, William, and Fanny. The Banes had insisted on sleeping in a different wing from the one they had last occupied, although Henry now pooh-poohed the ghost story, saying it was undoubtedly one of Lucien's larks.
