Christmas Yet To Come (The Ghosts of Christmas)

by Marian Perera

  He set his fork down with a clink, wondering where in the world had that flight of fancy come from. Across the table, Miss Snow had finished her meal, her appetite apparently undiminished by the prospect of being confined to his house. “I’ll try not to make any extra work for you,” she said. “Especially since your servants are away.”

  Justin had once made do without servants for a few years, and he almost said so. He stopped himself in time. If she wasn’t going to confide in him, he certainly wouldn’t lay his life open like a kipper before her, and while being trapped together by the snow might provide an illusion of closeness, he wouldn’t risk mistaking that for the real item.

  “I’ll get you some clothes after we’ve finished breakfast,” he said as he put the milk jug and sugar bowl before her. “Lucy—that’s the maid—she’s about your size, and she wouldn’t mind.”

  “Thank you.” She reached for a sugar lump, and popped that into her mouth. Justin’s own mouth dropped open, but he caught himself before he could say anything. Like it or not, she was a guest in his house, and in any case her table manners were none of his concern. Any more than she was.

  He filled the teapot, carried it back to the table and poured them both cups. But while he concentrated on preparing his own tea, he was very much aware of her as he did so. She watched his hands closely, and a flush rose up her skin, very noticeable against the open neck of the green dressing gown.

  Then she added the same amount of sugar and milk to her cup, as though she really hadn’t known what to do until she’d seen him. That was beyond strange—no matter how poor she might have been, she had to have drunk tea before—but he didn’t want to embarrass her by drawing attention to it.

  Especially since she was so accommodating. Not that a woman who’d ended up mostly naked in a man’s garden could afford to be choosy about what she wore, but he’d known some well-bred ladies who would have been distressed at having to clothe themselves in a maid’s apparel. Laura Snow clearly took that in a practical stride, and he wasn’t sure whether to be confused or charmed.

  It was even stranger when she went into the scullery to do the washing-up. Down-to-earth, as his father might have put it, no airs or graces at all. He went upstairs to the servants’ quarters, and decided to leave Lucy an extra shilling to compensate for his going through her wardrobe as he picked out a spare uniform, petticoat, stockings and even drawers. By the time he went downstairs, Miss Snow had finished the dishes, and she took the clothes into the spare room to change into them.

  Justin went to his study, but didn’t bother opening the curtains. Even through tightly shut windows, he heard the wind howl through the garden. Not the kind of weather either man or beast should be out in. Oh well, he always had plenty to do at home—he could go through his correspondence and see to the household accounts, and once he was done with those, he could spend time with Miss Snow. The next few days wouldn’t be lonely, if he had her company.

  As if on cue—speak of the devil—soft quick footsteps sounded outside and she came in. Justin paused halfway through filling his fountain pen.

  The long blue dress was serviceable and woolen-warm, but plain. Or it would have been plain if not for the lace she wore as an overskirt—the cloth off a tea-table, he thought, and she’d cinched it tightly with a cord that might have tied back a curtain. He was suddenly aware of the trimness of her waist, and the way the wool clung to the curves of her hips.

  Not that she seemed aware of her own looks, because she didn’t pose to ask his opinion or even pause self-consciously in the doorway.

  “Would you mind if I went to the parlor to read?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” Justin started to get up, automatically, then thought better of it. “Build up the fire in there—it must be cold.”

  “I will. And I’ll see to lunch.”

  “You can cook?”

  When she shook her head, her hair rustled in swathes over her shoulders. “No, I’ve—I’m not sure I remember how. But I’ll find enough for us to eat, and I can at least boil water.”

  Justin closed the inkwell and studied her. “You know, for someone who’s lost her memory and is snowbound with a stranger, you’re very calm.”

  Her brows arched. “Would it help matters any if I panicked?” One stride took her out of sight, and he heard her going down the stairs.

  He couldn’t rattle her, and he doubted ordering her to tell the truth would work either. But she was far too calm and self-assured for his liking. No, she didn’t need to panic, but complete indifference to her situation was the other extreme; she didn’t even seem to find anything unusual about the heavy snow, as Ben had done.

  On impulse, he went out and locked his bedroom door, thinking of the safe inside that held a few valuable papers and his strongbox. There wasn’t much else in the house worth taking—no silver plate, no objets d’art—and she couldn’t enter the study without him noticing.

  Perhaps it was ungentlemanly to suspect her of being—well, less than honest, but he’d learned caution the hard way. Putting his glasses on, he made himself go over the account books, and was almost done by the time she brought up a meal.

  He hadn’t expected much in that regard, but although she hadn’t cooked anything, the tray was laid with plates and folded napkins. She’d found a pot of mustard as well, to go with the cheese and ham. Except beside the mustard was an old candlestick, a silver stem on a saucerlike base, and she’d arranged digestive biscuits in the base. Butter knives stood in the holder where a taper should have been.

  It was what he’d started to expect from her—everything seemingly normal except for that startling touch of eccentricity. The funny thing was how naturally she behaved. Since she didn’t seem to see anything unusual about using a candlestick to hold cutlery and biscuits, he had no choice but to act the same way.

  Though he thought the candlestick would make a serviceable bud vase, once the winter was done and the flowers started to bloom again. He wondered where she would be at that time.

  There was enough space on the end of his desk for the tray, and she pulled up a chair. “May I ask you something?” she said, and he nodded with his mouth full. “Is there a reason you’d rather work than celebrate Christmas?”

  Justin wondered how she might have expected him to celebrate Christmas—hang a stocking from the bare mantelpiece? Sing carols by himself, to the walls? It would be either childish or pathetic.

  “I don’t have a family to spend it with.” He had no surviving brothers or sisters, and his father had passed away when he had been nineteen. The five years following that were ones he tried not to remember, because he’d spent them a pound or two away from bankruptcy. He knew the fear and deprivation were behind him now, but he could never forget how hard he had worked, not only to survive but to hide everything.

  Laura bit into a sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “No friends either?”

  That verged on the presumptuous, but he wasn’t sure how to put her in her place without being rude, and he didn’t want to do that. She might be forward, but she also seemed genuinely interested in his life. That was something he wasn’t used to, especially from women he’d known for such a short time. He tended to hold people at arm’s length, so of course they returned the favor.

  “I do have some.” He’d made friends in school, and a few more through his work. “But I…don’t get many invitations to Christmas balls or parties, that’s all.”

  The truth was that he’d been forced to turn those down, year after year. He hadn’t had either the time or the money. Not that his close friends would expect extravagant gifts, but how could he accept their generosity without offering any hospitality of his own, and how could he ask people to a house in that condition? Finally no more invitations had come his way—which was ironic, since now he might actually have been able to indulge himself.

  Deliberately, he glanced at
the letters on his desk, ignoring the apples she’d brought up with the rest of the food. “I should finish my work, Miss Snow.”

  She took the dismissal with an easy nod and carried the tray out. Justin couldn’t help lifting his gaze from his correspondence to watch her leave, but he reminded himself not to get used to her. His life was an endurable and predictable one, which he liked, but it was also stripped down to the essentials. There was no place in it for frivolity, much less for an unusual woman.

  Chapter Three

  After she washed the dishes, Laura dried her hands and returned to the parlor, where she’d spent most of the morning reading. The first book she’d picked up had made her stare blankly at pages of lines and symbols she didn’t recognize at all, and for a horrified moment she’d thought she was not just physically vulnerable but illiterate into the bargain. Then she’d realized she was looking at sheet music. Odd how there weren’t any instruments, in a parlor large enough to accommodate a spinet or a harpsichord.

  She put the music aside and found a cookbook—partly because the more she tried food, the more she liked it, and partly because she couldn’t afford to give herself away by showing her ignorance about the ways to prepare and eat meals. Most of the dishes seemed bewilderingly complex. No chance she’d be able to whip up a goose and a Christmas pudding to melt Justin’s heart via his stomach.

  No, the most she could hope to do was buy enough time for her to return to her true self.

  She went to the window, as close to the glass as she could be without actually touching it, and looked out at the snow. Pale circles appeared on the glass before her face, and the cold radiated out to prickle her skin. Drawing back, she pressed a fingertip into the mist of condensation to sketch a line on the glass, then added another line perpendicular to the first. She had time to do…something, if she could only decide what that was.

  She realized she’d written an L on the glass, so she added an S and sketched a little sad face beside the initials. At least she remembered how to read and write. She tried to imagine what it would have been like to lose that as well, to be not just adrift in a world she hardly recalled, but completely unable to educate herself about that world without arousing suspicion. The cold shivered out from the window and beneath the wool of her dress.

  Grimacing, she rubbed out her handiwork with the cuff of her sleeve. Really, she couldn’t afford to behave like a child—or waste any more time, for that matter.

  Her shroud lay on the fireguard, and it had to be dry by now. Sitting down, she spread the shroud over her legs and frowned down at it.

  She hadn’t been able to walk through the front door yesterday, even wearing it, but the heavy snowfall suggested matters weren’t entirely hopeless. That might have been a coincidence, but she preferred to think it was an answer to the prayer she’d made in the spare room last night. Which meant she really had been sent here for a reason beyond punishment for her rebellious nature. But if that was the case, why didn’t she have any of her powers?

  What if she’d been wrong in that assumption, though? She hadn’t actually tried to do anything after she’d knocked on the front door with her face. Could that initial failure have been a one-time event?

  Maybe she had to wait for Justin to ask her in, because she’d been unable to enter his house until she was invited over the threshold. After all, she wasn’t a familiar spirit of the house; she was a glimpse into a future filled with misery and death. But now that she was within the gates…

  Eagerly she jumped to her feet and went upstairs with the shroud. Best not to experiment in the parlor, so she went to her bedroom instead. No, the spare bedroom; she couldn’t think of anything in the house as hers. She closed the door and wedged a chair beneath the handle for good measure, though Justin didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would barge in.

  She started to put the shroud on, but hesitated. If she had been sent to change the course of his life, she needed to know the exact details.

  The mirror over the dressing table was the easiest source. She went to it, the shroud held in both hands before her like a shield, and raised the cloth so it curtained the glass. When she pressed her hands flat, through the shroud she felt cool glass, smooth and hard as a sheen of ice.

  Justin Welland, she thought, and lowered the shroud.

  She had expected to see one of two things—either him dying alone, aged now, or the aftermath of his death, as people reacted to the loss. Or the gain. Instead, he looked no older than he had been at lunch. He lay facedown on the floor, surrounded by a dark circle spreading slowly through the carpet.

  Tearing her attention away from his body with an effort, she looked at the room in the mirror instead, trying to make out details despite the dimness. Not hers. It was one she hadn’t seen before, and in a state of disarray—the chest-of-drawers was a stack of empty mouths, everything inside scattered on the floor. A faint haze lingered over the scene, as if there was mist in the air.

  A violent crime, she knew as the image of Justin’s death faded and she looked into her own set face. Was it because of her? Because she’d refused to do her duty as the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, someone else had to take her place, which meant dying?

  Of course. It made a bleak sense. If people saw their past and their present, they might be moved, longing, perhaps even regretful. But there would be no impetus to alter their lives immediately.

  Shock and terror achieved the desired effect quite well, though. Especially after people had been lulled into a sense of security by the warmth and love and laughter they’d just experienced. So there had to be a final specter who saw to that—the finisher, the dark side of the mirror, the sinister hand of the great design. No choice about it.

  She tried never to wonder who had played that part before her death, because she might begin to speculate on whether that ghost had finally had enough. And why the ice had seemed so solid when she’d first glided out onto it, feeling as though she was flying, only to turn to a sheet of spun sugar. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

  Being human wasn’t as bad as she’d thought—not now that she was warm and dry and fed—but she would give it up to save Justin. He had been kind to her, and letting him die so he could take her place seemed a poor return, at best, for his generosity. And odd though the thought was, she couldn’t help being convinced that she could enjoy a day of her new life more than he would the years and decades of his.

  She wished she could see into his past, to know why he was so intent on building a wall of account books and ledgers between himself and the world, but her sight never operated in reverse. She could only see his future…and he had far less of one than she might have suspected.

  Well, she could deal with that, and the first thing to do was to make sure she had all her powers back. She flung the shroud over her shoulders, arranging the cowl around her hair.

  Best not go for the door. If Justin happened to be in the landing, he’d see her step through solid wood. And she couldn’t head left either, because the study was in that direction. So she drew a deep breath and told herself she would not slam nose-first into the rightmost wall. She wore the shroud, she had brought on the snow and she had seen a murder in the mirror.

  She was as much ghost as human, and as much death as life.

  Without giving herself a moment more to consider or doubt, she walked into the wall.

  It was like passing through a mist. Coolness fell over her like insubstantial sand, soft as a sigh, and she was in another room entirely.

  The room she’d seen in the mirror. She knew that at once, except now the china pitcher stood whole in the basin and the chest-of-drawers was untouched. Pale grey light filtered past the drawn curtains, enough to pick out the four-poster bed and the clothes draped over the chair beside it.

  It was Justin’s bedroom.

  She stood there as if the wall had turned solid behind her and cut her off
. The room was as tidy and as cheerlessly functional as she’d expected—no paintings adorned the wallpaper, no ornaments were in sight—but she’d seen rooms like it before. She’d stalked into so many men’s bedchambers. But none had intrigued her as this one did.

  She looked around. A faint sharp scent of shaving soap was the first thing she had smelled that she preferred to food. Curiously, she touched the razor and brush that gleamed dully in the poor light. A bottle of bay rum aftershave stood on the dressing table beside them.

  She could tell which side of the bed he used, because that end of the quilt was turned down, and the pillow indented. The bed was probably as cold as the one she’d climbed into the past night, though it wouldn’t be that way if someone else was in it.

  And she wasn’t cold at all. She felt unsettled, probably thanks to the vision in the mirror, but her skin was warm as it had been when she’d drunk brandy. She swallowed, thinking she could have used another drink, because her mouth had gone oddly dry. The subtle yet masculine scent in the air crept into her nostrils and stole over her skin beneath her clothes, sending a gooseprickle flush over her.

  This is ridiculous. Not to mention a waste of time. Now that she had made certain her powers worked, she had to—

  A metallic click made her spin around. The door’s handle turned. Before she could collect herself and run, the door swung open.

  Justin stepped in and went still. He didn’t seem to quite believe what was before his eyes, which she was used to, but when his brows came together, there wasn’t even a hint of fear in his face.

  “How did you get in here?” He spoke as if he had found her searching through his belongings, and her mind went as blank as if she had genuinely lost her memory. What in the world could she say?

  Justin stepped in and shut the door. “I asked you a question.”

  Laura bit her lip. No other choice. If she didn’t try to explain herself, he might order her to leave—and then she didn’t know what would happen to either of them. At worst, talking would buy her time to decide what to do next.