A Calm Before the Storm

by Kelley York

  I falter inwardly, cracking open an eye to steal a look at her. Yes, we did this once, although William did the talking and it was not with a seasoned veteran with us, but…

  If she insists. Right.

  “Mr. William Carter,” I announce, voice firm and projecting. “We’re here to speak with you on behalf of your wife. Please make yourself seen.”

  Nothing happens. I swallow back the embarrassment, remind myself that any lack of confidence on my part will only result in failure, and repeat the words, firmer this time. It takes four tries, and with each one, Mrs. Carter seems to grow more impatient.

  Finally, a chill settles over the room like a blanket of snow and when I open my eyes, I see a man standing behind Mrs. Carter’s chair. His head lolls to one side, the milky whites of his dead eyes staring off at nothing. I recognise him as William Carter from a few of the photos on the walls elsewhere in the house.

  That part is not unsettling to me. The unsettling part are the other ghosts in the room, faint flickers of shadows with no discernible features—wandering shades who heard my calls and decided to join us.

  Miss Bennett’s eyes have remained closed. She murmurs beneath her breath, too quiet for me to make out. William Carter’s head slowly turns. He begins to walk around the table, passing behind me, and stops behind Miss Bennett.

  Then he places his hands upon her shoulders, and her spine goes rigid as she gasps in a fractured breath.

  This, too, is not new, and yet I find myself gripping her hand tighter out of sheer anxiousness. I’ve seen people possessed. I’ve been possessed. I shall never understand how she can allow it to happen willingly, to actually invite a spirit inside of her.

  Mrs. Carter has opened her eyes to stare. She does not see her husband, but she sees Miss Bennett, head wrenched back at an almost unnatural angle, and her body twisting in pain. Mrs. Carter’s gaze flicks to me in uncertainty, and I school my expression to remain calm as I murmur, “Keep hold of her hand at all costs, please.”

  Miss Bennett’s body finally goes limp. She slouches forward. William Carter’s ghost has not moved. Miss Bennett raises her head, and the colourless hue to her eyes has the hairs on my arms standing on end. Familiar, but no less discomforting than it has been every time before.

  “Mr. Carter?” I ask.

  “Yes.” The voice comes out of Miss Bennett’s mouth, and it sounds like her well enough, but there’s another voice, laid over hers like sheer gauze and it comes out like a whisper.

  Beside me, Mrs. Carter’s hand clenches down on mine. Finally, something seems to have got a reaction out of her.

  “Go ahead and ask your questions, Mrs. Carter. You don’t have much time.”

  She hesitates, predictably, but regains her senses quickly enough. “William, it’s Edna. I need to know what you’ve done with all the money from the investments.”

  The possessed Miss Bennett scoffs. “Gone. All gone.”

  Edna Carter’s expression sours. “What do you mean it’s gone?”

  “Gone. Lost in bets.” A slow smile creeps across Miss Bennett’s face that mirrors the one on William Carter’s mouth.

  Mrs. Carter only stares, all the colour gone from her face, looking not unlike a ghost herself. The room weighs heavy in silence for several long ticks of the nearby grandfather clock, and then—William Carter begins to chuckle, deep and heavy and disquieting.

  “Never could…take a joke,” he rasps. “Find papers.”

  She blinks her cloudy eyes, confused. “Papers?”

  “From Charles. In…desk.” His voice breaks toward the end, and Miss Bennett’s head twists to one side, her eyes closing and brows knitting together. I squeeze her hand, which has begun to go cold in my grasp. Her fingers twitch and curl about mine, and, finally, she gasps and Mr. Carter’s ghost steps away, dissipating into the shadows and the flicker of firelight.

  “William?” Mrs. Carter demands, leaning in close, trying to peer at Miss Bennett with her limited vision. “Is he still there?”

  “He’s gone,” I say as Miss Bennett tries to gather her bearings. I call out a dismissal to the spirits in the room, and thankfully, the shadows at the corner of my vision all fade back into nothing without any lingering troublemakers. Only then do I release Mrs. Carter’s hand, although I keep hold of Miss Bennett’s because she’s got such a tight grip on me.

  “All right?” I ask her.

  She slowly straightens and pushes back her shoulders. “Yes, thank you.”

  Mrs. Carter has called for the maid—who appears so swiftly that she must have been waiting out in the wings—and instructs her to go upstairs to William’s study and look for any papers in his desk from someone named Charles. The girl scurries off obediently, and Mrs. Carter turns her attention back to us. “I suppose we’ll see if there was any truth to that, or if it was simply parlour tricks.”

  I smile tightly. “There are no tricks to the work Miss Bennett does.”

  “We’ll see,” she grumbles.

  While Miss Bennett sits back with her eyes closed, we wait in silence. The young woman returns in short order, a large envelope in her hands.

  “I’ve found this, ma’am,” she says, offering them out.

  Mrs. Carter scowls. “Do I look like I can read them? Go on, child.”

  The girl blushes, swiftly opening the envelope and removing its contents. After scanning the first few pages— “It looks to be some sort of contract. A loan? Investment to a Mr. Charles Schmidt, made six months ago. It looks like repayment was due…” She pauses. “…This month.”

  Miss Bennett opens her eyes and we look to each other.

  “The man dies right before it comes time to collect on a debt. Rather convenient,” I murmur.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Carter says icily. She reaches into the drawer of the small table beside her and removes a slip of paper, which she offers out to me. “Your payment. I thank you for your time in this manner.”

  I retrieve the cheque, giving it a thoughtful glance. I’ll admit, I don’t always know what sort of payment Miss Bennett receives for her work—none of my business, really—though even I know she charged this woman more than she ordinarily does. I slide the cheque to Miss Bennett, who tucks it safely away in her handbag.

  The maid sees us out with very few words exchanged, and as we head down the street and I offer Miss Bennett my arm to help steady her, I can’t help but chuckle.

  She takes my arm. “What do you find amusing?”

  “I don’t know. That she was such a sour old woman, or perhaps that her husband saw fit to needle her even from beyond the grave.”

  Miss Bennett cracks a small smile. “I could picture you doing that to poor William. Is it really so surprising?”

  “Fair enough. Sure you’re all right? Do we need to have a seat somewhere?”

  “You fuss too much. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t know how you do all that, truthfully. I don’t think I ever could.”

  “One learns how to deal with it. Now, let’s go to the bank and we will have that cheque cashed for you.”

  We do as she wishes, grab ourselves a bite to eat on the go, and venture back to her flat. It will be dark soon, and I really need to be getting back to William. Even in his current state he’s likely to start worrying at my absence.

  Inside the flat, Miss Bennett removes her coat and shawl. “Thank you kindly for assisting me today,” she says, before turning to offer out the money.

  All of it.

  I stare at her outstretched hand, confused. “Miss Bennett?”

  “Don’t you dare make a spectacle. Just take it, and Happy Christmas to you and William.”

  On its own, it isn’t enough for me to be able to afford William’s violin, but combined with what I’ve got squirreled away… I swallow back the lump in my throat. I do take the money, yes, but I be
lieve I shall ignore her other request about not making a spectacle of myself because her kindness has left me a bit emotional. “I suppose it would be untoward of me to hug you.”

  Miss Bennett chuckles. “Oh, all right. Because it’s Christmas.”

  I gather her up into my arms while closing my eyes to force back the tears. I’ve told Miss Bennett many times how much she means to William and me, that she’s given us the ability to have a life together. She’s become family to us both, replacing the ones we’ve both more or less lost.

  Miss Bennett sighs, muttering about how ridiculous I am, but she pats my back and I can hear the amusement in her voice.

  “Go on, James. Go home to William.”

  It’s a long walk home, one I’ve made a thousand times, but it’s growing late enough after I’ve made a few stops at various stores and I worry William won’t have so much as fed himself in my absence, so that I grudgingly fork over the money for a cab.

  Unsurprisingly, the house is dark when the carriage pulls up out front. I gather my purchases into my arms and hurry down the short driveway, battling a combination of excitement and nervousness. Will he be upset with me, I wonder? Because I’ve been working alone, because I’ve kept this a secret from him, because I got him a gift at all? Will he have been all right all day left to his own devices? I never worry about William so much as when he’s going through one of his melancholy episodes.

  I let myself in and quietly deposit the violin case out of sight behind the Christmas tree in the sitting room. The tree itself is quite lovely, although sparsely decorated, but I had hoped it would bring dear William some cheer to have it there. Not that he’s come downstairs to see it much, but I was still determined to try. That’s really all that I can do, isn’t it? And I do and I will regardless of whether or not any of my attempts succeed because it’s the very least that I can do for William.

  I leave another parcel in the kitchen—some biscuits, a loaf of bread, a fresh cut of ham for Christmas tomorrow—and take the last bag upstairs. Upon stepping into the bedroom, I grimace.

  “Christ, William, it’s freezing in here. Why didn’t you keep the fire going?”

  Except no one responds.

  I still in the centre of the room, noting the absence of William’s form on the bed and the rumpled bedclothes, the deathly silence and stillness of the house around me. Dread settles thickly in the pit of my stomach. For half a second, the worst scenario flashes through my mind and renders it difficult to breathe. Either William lost his fight and went off in search of the nearest chemist, or—

  Worse. It could be worse.

  And I am not giving him enough credit, am I?

  William is not one to give up so easily and certainly not one to (purposely) make me worry. He would not have gone far, wherever he’s wandered off to.

  I scold myself promptly and hurry out of the room, having a look through the few other rooms of the house, each of them as empty as the last.

  Before I can dive into a proper panic, I notice the bottle of milk set out upon the kitchen counter, and the kitchen door is cracked open just so. Heart racing, I step outside, and spot William crouched on back steps, a saucer of cream placed before him and his knees drawn to his chest. He’s still in his nightclothes and dressing gown, for that matter, though at least he had enough sense to put some socks on before venturing into the cold.

  The breath rushes out of me in one relieved sigh. Thank God. “There you are.”

  William starts, tipping his head back, mussed hair sticking out cutely in all directions. That’s how you know when William isn’t feeling like himself; he’s normally so put together, so well-dressed, never a hair out of place, clean-shaven. For him to emerge from the house even this far looking how he currently does says everything about his state of mind.

  “I should be saying that to you,” he says. “You’ve been gone awhile.”

  I take a seat beside him on the top step, hip to hip. “Sorry, Miss Bennett needed my help with a client. Were you all right without me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Oh, I could give him a list. “No reason. What are we doing out here, exactly?”

  To that, William gives a heavy sigh and drops his head to rest against my shoulder. “Kittens. I thought I heard them out here a day or two ago, and saw one earlier today all by itself, though not a sibling or mother in sight. I was worried it might get too cold for them.”

  My heart about melts. William’s got a soft spot for animals. Every time we so much as take a walk down the road, he insists upon keeping some sort of treat on-hand for the neighbours’ dogs and horses. I wrap an arm about his shoulders and hug him to my side, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Well, it’s not going to do a lot of good if you freeze out here yourself, darling. Why don’t we leave a blanket out? If we haven’t heard it again by morning, I’ll see if I can’t hunt it down.” Better me than William. I can’t bear to think of how broken-hearted he’d be to find any number of cats frozen to death in the snow.

  He sighs again, but it’s a tired, yielding sound before he nods.

  Together we head back inside. William gives a cursory glance at the things I brought home in the kitchen but says nothing of them. Rather than allow him to retreat upstairs, I catch him by the hand and lead him into the sitting room instead.

  “I’ve brought you something,” I say, once he’s seated on the settee and I’ve got a fire going and a few candles upon the Christmas tree lit. I remove the small bag from my coat pocket, have a seat, and pull out a small sweet, which I offer out to him with a grin. William hasn’t the same sweet-tooth that I do, but never once has he turned down a truffle. “They’re from Pendleton’s shop. Your favourites.”

  He does smile then, but it’s a submissive sort of smile that suggests it’s more for my benefit than anything else. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I most certainly did! It’s Christmas, and we’re going to enjoy it.”

  William takes the truffle, but his lack of enthusiasm makes my heart hurt. Christmas has always been his favourite time of year. It didn’t even matter that he hated celebrating it with his own family. It didn’t matter when it was just the two of us, having a picnic in the cold at Whisperwood. William said he loved the weather, the trees, the decorations and food. He loved the spirit of the holiday. I never really cared for it one way or another, but his excitement was always infectious. I found it to be one of the most endearing qualities of his, that someone so reserved and considered by others to be sour could show such childlike enthusiasm over a holiday.

  So, when his enthusiasm for it this time around seemed so miserably dim, it had been heart-breaking. I almost wish I had coaxed him into pushing off his laudanum detoxification until after the new year, though I don’t know if that was largely a selfish thought. Honestly, I sometimes have trouble telling such things when it comes to William’s happiness. Sometimes he seems so settled into his melancholy that I question which one of us truly enjoys his well-being.

  There is no denying, though, that this entire bloody ordeal has been difficult on William. It has also been difficult on me, though in different ways. Namely, watching him suffer—physically, emotionally—as the drugs leave his body and his struggle to find a footing in navigating daily life without it…and knowing that I could fix it. Just a bottle of laudanum or a drink, and William could be smiling and laughing again. Not completely well, no, because William’s melancholy and anxiousness plagues him no matter what, but certainly worlds above where he is now.

  And I would only be perpetuating the cycle.

  Logically, I know these things, but it still hurts that we’ve collided with the one thing I cannot help William with: himself.

  William eats the offered truffle but doesn’t ask for another, though I’m holding an entire bag of them. Desperation gnaws at my insides, a longing to put a genuine smile upon his face on
the eve of one of his most cherished days. If I can’t find reason for him to be happy now, will there ever be such an occasion? I cannot bear the thought that William will never be happy again, that I won’t be able to lure him away from his battle with himself. Perhaps it’s dramatic of me, I don’t know; all I know is that William is my dearest, the one that saved me and continues to save me, and the thought that I cannot do the same for him is unbearable.

  “I’ve got you something else,” I venture finally. It’s early, and such things should wait for Christmas morning, but... “A gift.”

  His eyes stray from the tree over to me. “What?”

  “A gift,” I repeat. “And, look, I know you said no presents this year, but I just…”

  William frowns. “No. Absolutely not. You know money is tight right now, we talked about it and you agreed—”

  I wince, holding up my hands. I knew this wouldn’t be easy and I have mentally prepared for pushback. I will not give up so easily. “I know, I know. You’re right. I did, and I’m sorry. I promise you, none of this came out of our savings. Besides, it’s a gift from Miss Bennett, too. Will you open it? Please?”

  His mouth pulls into a tight line, conflicted and troubled as he sinks back against the couch. It isn’t a yes, but it is not a no, either, and sometimes that’s the best one gets with a displeased William. So, I hop to my feet and instruct William to close his eyes while I fetch the violin case from behind the tree. When I place the case in his lap, his brows furrow, hands coming to rest atop it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Have a look and find out.”

  William opens his eyes, which immediately grow wide when he takes stock of the item in his hands. “James…”

  “I don’t know if it’s any good, actually,” I find myself stammering, now worried maybe it wasn’t an appropriate gift at all. Just because he had interest in something once doesn’t mean that it is something that necessarily matters to him now, after all. Maybe I should have put more thought into this entire thing. “I don’t know a thing about violins, and I just recall you mentioning in passing that you missed playing, and so…”