by Anne Mallory
“And that nice Mr. Brockwell,” her mother said.
“Mr. Brockwell is also acceptable. But Mr. Penshard…” Mrs. Browning frowned. “You have encouraged him. A more radical type of man. You’d do well to choose one of the others.”
“Mr. Penshard is not radical.”
“I think I have more notion of men’s characters, especially those on the mart, than you do.” Mrs. Browning raised a brow. “Heed my words. We want someone pliable.”
Abigail wasn’t sure why she—they—wanted someone pliable, but since her hire, Mrs. Browning had always insisted on that as the foremost quality in a suitor.
“We should take Mrs. Browning’s advice, Abigail,” her mother said. “You have a finite window to make a match.”
“And you can’t be too finicky,” Mrs. Browning added, giving her a once-over that clearly stated that she was found lacking.
“Oh, no, finicky is not good. Your father used to say—”
Abigail nodded absently at her mother and Mrs. Browning. Abigail was too used to the words and dire glances to really register them. Mrs. Browning had come highly recommended, and she had fulfilled her reputation so far, so Abigail tried not to let the woman upset her. After a while, all the jibes started to blend together in a sort of unending diatribe. And she had more important thoughts on her mind.
“And your hair,” her mother tsked, bringing Abigail’s attention back. “It just hangs by the end of the evening. That maid of yours needs to secure the pins more tightly. It is absolutely unconscionable that you look so sloppy.”
Mrs. Browning nodded sharply in agreement. Abigail tucked her one loose wisp of hair behind her right ear self-consciously. Not even four dozen strokes of her favorite brush could get it to behave.
The thought of her brush—and its origin—brought pain. She tried to keep it from her face and shoved the emotion deep.
“Mr. Farnswourth was kind enough not to say anything, but I could tell by the way he was looking at you that he noticed,” Mrs. Browning said. “A man wants a wife who takes pride in her appearance. He needs a woman who will run his household, his servants, and”—she jammed a finger into the leather seat—“someone upon whom he can depend to uphold the family image and honor. You must project that.”
Abigail nodded along. It was always less tiring to do so.
“And you need to stop taking so many turns about the room. It is fine if you are encouraging a specific suitor, but you seem to find an excuse to do so at the most unreasonable of times.” Mrs. Browning’s brows drew sharply together.
Abigail could hardly justify why she had done so tonight. She sent a surreptitious glance to her mother. Had her mother watched her carefully enough to question her actions? She would be aghast. And more determined then ever to break Abigail of her tactile need.
But her mother simply frowned at nothing, sitting, as usual, as far away from Abigail as the interior of their rented coach allowed. But one knee was tantalizingly close to hers. And the stress of the evening begged for some physical reassurance. If the carriage hit a large rut in the road, they would brush.
At that moment the carriage shuddered slightly, and Abigail overly lurched forward in her seat. She bumped Mrs. Browning’s knee instead.
“I say, Miss Smart.” She drew herself up and put her knees to the side out of reach. “Have you no more grace than an infant?”
“My apologies, Mrs. Browning.”
“I noticed that you displayed some strange behavior at the end of the night too.” Abigail looked resolutely back, trying to ignore the widening of her mother’s eyes to the right of their paid companion. “I thought you understood the consequences of—”
Abigail jumped as Rainewood appeared on top of Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Browning’s flapping mouth somewhere near his chin. His face melded with the older woman’s in a grotesque fashion so that it looked as if she possessed an extra pair of features.
The mouth superimposed over Mrs. Browning’s forehead spoke. “Tell me what is happening.”
Abigail felt her lips part. How on earth had he come to be in the carriage?
The lower mouth continued moving with words like consequences, trouble, marriage, and duty.
“Why did I have trouble leaving the house?” The deep voice demanded, too masculine and intimate to come from her strict companion. “What forces am I facing? What are you?”
“Abigail,” her mother said sharply. “Are you paying attention to Mrs. Browning?”
“Of course I am, Mother,” she said automatically.
Mrs. Browning’s eyes were narrowed in the middle of the horrific display of combined features. “And we will need to take advantage of Earl Raine wood’s notice of you the other night and the stir it created. Secure the affections of a few other well-chosen men, before he has a chance to retract the attention.”
“Ha. You do have something to do with this, I knew it,” he said, Mrs. Browning’s forehead grotesquely delivering the scathing indictment, a male hand reaching out from her body to point accusingly at her.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it!” Both sets of lips on Mrs. Browning separated in shock.
But for the clicks of the wheels on the cobblestones outside, the carriage grew silent.
Abigail swallowed. “With Lord Rainewood’s notice, I mean.”
“Abigail dear—” Her mother’s volume was soft and soothing, but her tone was unnerved and scared.
“No.” Abigail rubbed her forehead and focused on her lap, unable to watch the strange spectacle across from her, unable to believe what she had almost said. “I have the headache, Mother, please. I can barely think straight as you can see. Can we discuss this in the morning? I apologize for any odd behavior, but the megrim came upon me so quickly at the end of the night, that it’s hard to think.”
It was partially true. Rainewood’s appearance had given her a headache for sure. And now…well, now she just wanted to go to her room and have a good cry.
“Your megrims are becoming more common,” Mrs. Browning said tightly, regaining her composure. “Don’t think I don’t know the trick, Miss Smart, because I assure you that I know them all.”
“Yes, Mrs. Browning.” She honestly didn’t care at this point if her mother or their entrée into society was displeased. As long as they partially bought the story. As long as her mother didn’t think to send for him. As long as she could convince them she was fine in the morning.
She just wanted to trudge to bed and never awaken.
Rainewood stayed surprisingly quiet as they pulled up to the rented house on Hanover Square. The door opened and with the help of the footman, Abigail exited after Mrs. Browning and her mother. It wasn’t until they entered the foyer, that she realized Rainewood wasn’t behind them.
She craned her neck to see the carriage rolling down the street, harsh lines from the gas lamps outlining his face in the window.
“I want to see you first thing in the morning,” Mrs. Browning announced, handing her shawl to a waiting servant. “We need to prepare for Mr. Sourting’s arrival.”
Abigail gave one last look at the retreating carriage as it rounded the corner, then turned and jumped in alarm as Rainewood suddenly appeared in front of her.
“Abigail,” her mother admonished.
She watched Rainewood for a moment, trying to hold back a hysterical scream. “Yes, Mother. Mrs. Browning. First thing. Good evening to you both.”
Mrs. Browning’s eyes and lips were pinched, but she turned and retired to the drawing room with Abigail’s mother. They would likely go over her many foibles and draw up a new plan of conquest. Mrs. Browning was her mother’s ally, though there was always something strained about her face when she looked at Mrs. Gerald Smart. Why Mrs. Browning was harder on Abigail, considering all of her mother’s occasional mistakes, she had yet to unravel.
And for all of the time Mrs. Browning, with her eagle eyes and wolf ears, had spent with them in the past few weeks, Abigail was surprised that th
e woman hadn’t guessed their secret.
Abigail straightened her sagging shoulders and headed for the stairs. She would not pout. She would not scream. She would get through this just like she always did.
Great Aunt Effie floated along beside her as she ascended the two flights. “I have tea. Hot and piping. Two lumps. A twist of lemon. So hard to get good lemons in winter.”
Abigail nodded, hardly surprised about mythical lemons in wintertime after six years of repetitive conversation and endless winter with Aunt Effie.
“Dolores and Francine are coming by. I have the most scandalous news. Miss Turnbridge is with child, unmarried.” The elderly woman leaned in. “And, I’m telling you this before I tell them, but the king has suffered a breakdown.” Her hand went to her mouth.
Abigail closed her eyes for a moment, then opened the door to her room. Effie floated through the wall on her right.
“Aren’t you the least bit shocked? I say!” Effie went off to a huff in her corner.
After a daily dose of the same thirty-year-old bits of gossip it was not as much of a shock anymore. Some days Abigail played along—most often during especially trying days with her mother or Rainewood, when any social contact was appreciated.
But tonight she couldn’t participate, and she couldn’t even work up the guilt. She threw her reticule down on the coverlet. Effie would be back with the same gossip tomorrow and wouldn’t remember a thing about tonight’s brush off. A blessing, if she was in poor spirits like tonight. A curse in any other imaginable way she could think of.
She shut her eyes again.
“Are you going to speak to me now?”
She opened one eye to see Rainewood leaning against the doorframe, one brow lazily cocked, but the edges of his body thrummed in agitation. She fell backward onto the bed in one ungraceful thump. She’d regret the position in a second, but for the moment she was just too exhausted.
“You aren’t really here. I’m having a nightmare. Go away.”
There was no pressure on the bed, but she looked up to see him looming over her, one hand and then the other falling to either side of her shoulders in a thoroughly dominant position. Her heartbeat increased as she recognized the posture from any number of ghostly liaisons she had observed. Were he physically present and able to touch her, she would be in deep trouble. All he would have to do would be to lean down and kiss her, to connect them below and claim her.
He shifted the intimate position and leaned on his side so that he was lying alongside her on the bed. One hand propped up his head as he watched her. She had a feeling that, spirit or not, he had seen her reaction.
He always did. He never ceased to use those weapons against her.
She took a deep breath, determined not to let Rainewood, a spirit of Rainewood no less, get the better of her. “How did you manage to exit Grayton House? Then the carriage?”
His eyes sharpened. “You knew I would have difficulty?”
“All spirits do. There are barriers that keep you inside. A type of haunting, if you will.”
“I’m not a spirit.” His teeth clenched on the word. “This is merely a dream from which I cannot wake. But you hold the key, I can feel it. I want to wake up now, Smart. Do it.” He waved an agitated hand imperiously.
Something vindictively satisfied rushed through her at the notion that soon he would have to accept that she had always been truthful. “No, you are not a spirit. You are a tenacious spirit. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. You were a bloody ass in life.” She passed a hand over her eyelids, closing them. It was unreal. This was no more than a passing dream. How could he be dead, when he was lying next to her on her bed, alert and seemingly in full control of his faculties?
It only made sense that Rainewood wouldn’t even die properly.
“I’m not a spirit.” But there was something off in his tone. A question. A remembrance of a conversation so long ago. “This is a dream. A rather disturbing one, since I’m stuck with you.”
The reminder of their present bleeding from the past angered her again and she swiped a hand through his body. “No?” When he didn’t respond she waved it around his rib cage. “What are you, then?”
He didn’t answer.
She sighed and rubbed a hand along her forehead, the pain there lashing twofold against the sides of her skull.
“One of those spirits. You’d just have to be, wouldn’t you.”
“What are those spirits?” All coaxing had left his voice. She knew he still didn’t believe her, but that questioning, that remembrance…it was there in the hesitation he never possessed in life.
“Miss Abigail. How was your evening?” Her maid saved her from answering by entering the room, as silent as if she too were incorporeal.
“Pleasant, Telly.” She forced a smile over the lie.
“That is good, miss. I look forward to hearing all about it. I have a warm towel for you.”
“Thank you, Telly.”
Her maid placed the towel on Abigail’s forehead and just over the upper half of her eyes so that she could still see. Her fingers only lingered long enough to make sure the placement was secure, skillfully avoiding any contact with her skin. Abigail pretended not to notice and breathed a sigh of relief as the warmth soothed away some of the discomfort and stress.
Telly removed Abigail’s slippers and stockings in an efficient fashion.
“While I will have to gouge my eyes out after that peek at your ankles—” Rainewood’s gaze traveled downward. “We are not addressing the issue and this is my dream. Nightmare. What are the spirits to which you refer?”
She pinched her lips, but answered anyway. “Some spirits have a quest that needs to be solved. Something that must be resolved before they can move on. While others just imprint themselves on the living world instead.”
“Do you have a new one, miss?” Telly asked as she brushed her stockings.
“Yes, Telly, a most tenacious spirit that followed inside.”
Her maid nodded and put her slippers away. She would never ask unless the information was volunteered.
A dark voice at her ear said, “A most tenacious man who will continue to follow you until you help him.”
“A cursed man who will rein havoc upon the land, unless I stop him from seeking his vengeance against all who have betrayed him,” she said in the most dramatic and hushed tone she could manage.
The expression on Rainewood’s face was worth every bit of guilt.
“Then you must stop him, miss.” Telly looked all too serious.
“Do not worry, Telly, we will impede his mad plans.” She jabbed a closed fist into the air. Rainewood’s mouth turned downward, his eyes dark, missing the sparkling mirth they used to contain so long ago. Lost in the past.
She closed her eyes to block the view.
“ ’Tis a true gift,” Telly whispered in the reverent tone that told of her Gypsy roots. It was the only reason Abigail could think of for why the maid hadn’t run screaming the first time she had caught Abigail talking to what appeared to be dust mites in the corner. She’d proclaimed that Abigail had her grandmother’s sacred gift.
Gift? Abigail shook her head, her headache reviving a notch, and she pushed the towel from her forehead. “Just a questing spirit, Telly. We will be rid of him shortly.”
“Over my dead body,” he said.
“That is the case now, isn’t it?” She rose and walked to her dressing chair, sitting so that she could still watch him. Telly removed the pins from her hair and began to ease a brush through the brown strands.
“I don’t see the humor, Smart. And moreover, I’m not dead.”
“You are in fact dead, Rainewood.” The brush snagged in her hair, prompting a wince that had nothing to do with how she felt about her nemesis being dead. He was still sitting on her bed, speaking to her. It was almost as if he wasn’t really dead.
Telly murmured a quick apology and began brushing again.
“I don’t believe it,” h
e murmured, and she had the feeling that he truly believed he was in a dream for a second, otherwise he would never have used such a soft tone near her. “Something…something happened.” He screwed his eyes shut, as if he too was pained by a terrible headache. “I…I think I’m in danger. I need to wake.”
He rose and started pacing soundlessly across the curling ivy rug. She said nothing as he continued to silently pace, his eyes tightening, his hands fisting. The only sound was the gentle swish of the tines brushing through her strands.
Telly set the brush back on the dressing table and Abigail rose.
Rainewood looked up.
“Go out in the hall,” she commanded.
He simply lifted a brow. “No.”
“I need to prepare for bed. Go haunt someone else for the night.”
He flopped down at the edge of the bed and crossed his ankles, hands splayed behind him. “I think I will stay right here. I’ll wake soon, and far be it for me to miss the show in my own head.”
“Miss?” Telly said, a bit nervously.
She pointed at Rainewood again. “Leave.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He raised a brow. “Are we going to argue childishly all night?”
“When do we ever do anything but?” She wiped an agitated hand along her skirt.
“Miss?”
Abigail considered her options. She could continue arguing. She could go to another room. She could simply change in front of him. See what his reaction would be.
She shook her head violently. “Absolutely not.”
Now both Telly and Rainewood were looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Going to another room would generate all sorts of suspicion as to her mental stability. Arguing was their forte, but not something that she cared to do for hours in front of her maid—the one person who knew that she could see ghosts and accepted it. She needed Telly on her side too badly.
Which left…
Abigail strode over to the wardrobe door and opened it, stepping behind to hide her mostly from view. “I’m ready.”
