Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

Wandering to the window, he watched Imogen cross the yard. Her sunny smile as she politely greeted the vicar washed over him. He swallowed, closing his eyes. Then, regaining his composure, he turned away, focusing his attention on the letter. Breaking the seal, he sat near the window so that he could keep an eye on his wayward student, then he began to read, Dearest Jane, you will not believe what it is I have to reveal to you…

  * * * *

  Clouds blanketed the sky, covering the blue like splotchy, white ornaments. The white heavens diffused the light, brightening all of the earth so that hardly a shadow was cast over the ground. Imogen straightened her straw bonnet, hoping she looked more pious than she felt. Her gloved hands smoothed the richness of her linen day gown. The folds of the cream material flowed with every movement.

  Seeing someone she knew must be the new vicar waiting for her, she glanced at the library window. For a moment, she thought she saw Mr. Weston watching her, but then decided she’d been mistaken. Pasting a cheery smile on her lips, she approached the short man, who held his hands out in greeting.

  Without waiting for introduction, Reverend Stillwell said merrily, “Oh, Miss Imogen! What promising things I have heard of you.”

  “Good morning, Vicar,” said Imogen, bewildered by the compliment. She bowed her head politely. Seeing his kind blue eyes squinting up at her from the depths of his ruddy complexion, she grinned. The man’s good humor seeped infectiously from his very being. “You must be Reverend Stillwell. I am sorry to say that I have only just now heard of you.”

  “Yes, yes, certainly. Young people have so much more to worry with than meeting an old man like myself.” The vicar waved his hands in a sweeping gesture befitting a man on the pulpit and urged her to join him in a walk. Chuckling merrily, his two chins jiggled as he moved his head.

  “So, are you to take over the parish at Haventon, Father?” Imogen asked politely. “I assume you are new to our town.”

  “No, not at all, I have lived here many years and have worked at the parish just as long,” he answered, content to take his time divulging his purpose.

  “But Reverend Campbell…?” Imogen looked at the man in confusion.

  “The good Reverend Campbell and I share the duties of the parish,” the vicar said with a laugh. Imogen did not get the joke, but smiled politely nonetheless. “He tends to the church and pulpit and I tend to the old and sickly souls of the parish. We keep out of each other’s way.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mr. Weston tells me that you had quite an adventure last night,” Reverend Stillwell said, turning toward the wooded area by the stream.

  She didn’t pay attention to where they strolled, her mind focused on the vicar’s words.

  He did not, thought Imogen in horror. He could not have confessed such a thing!

  Noticing the vicar was eyeing her pale expression, she gulped. “Well, yes. I suppose.”

  “You saw spirits,” offered the vicar when she hesitated.

  Imogen almost swooned with relief, only to be overcome by embarrassment. She couldn’t answer.

  “I believe you, if that helps you regain your tongue, dear.” The man smiled at her. “I know for a fact that spirits wander this world just as the living do.”

  “You don’t think I imagined it?” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the ground.

  “There was a time when I would have,” he admitted. “But I have seen them too. I see them often in fact.”

  “What do they want?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to say. It depends on what is keeping them bound to the earth. Some want to be helped. Some don’t. Some don’t even know they have died and only need direction to find their way.”

  “And you help those souls find their way to heaven?” she asked.

  The vicar nodded. He scratched his round, balding head. “More or less. I help them to find peace if they don’t already have it and, for those that do, I help them to find their way.”

  “So they have spoken to you then?”

  “Some,” answered the vicar easily. He led her closer to the forest. “Usually only the ones who don’t know they are deceased and only if they are generally at peace. But, occasionally, there is a soul that needs my help and, by the will of God, I help them in whatever way I can.”

  “I don’t think the two I saw were at peace. I don’t know what happened, but their faces melted into something horrible right before my eyes.” Imogen shuddered at the remembrance. She hugged her arms about her waist, feeling a chill sweep over her skin.

  “Hum,” mused the vicar thoughtfully. “Did you startle them?”

  “Startle them?” Imogen returned with a wide-eyed laugh of disbelief. Seeing the seriousness in his expression, she uttered, “I did scream. Their horse—”

  “Horse?” interrupted the vicar. “You saw a horse with them? An actual animal spirit?”

  “Yes, one of them was riding it. I think that it must have been the Marquis of Rothfield, although he was dressed as a knight.” Imogen wondered at the man’s tone. His face stayed cheerily the same, but his voice dipped in a concern he was hard pressed to hide. Imogen detected it immediately. “Why? Are animal spirits rare?”

  “Yes, indeed. I myself have never seen one, only heard rumors. Honestly, I did not think they existed.”

  “They do,” Imogen asserted.

  “As a knight you say?” the vicar encouraged, not wanting to lose the way of their conversation by digressing too far.

  “Yes. At least I think he was a knight. He did not wear his armor but a tunic shirt and breeches from long ago. I got the impression he was a knighted man. And I seem to recall a sword at his waist.” Imogen paused, trying to remember and finding the exact details unclear. “He was very proud and handsome in a ruffian way.”

  “Proud? How so?” asked the vicar.

  “Just his carriage,” she said, unable to really explain. “Do you know of him?”

  “Were those the two you saw?” His jowls shook with an urgency he tried to hide. “The horse and the knight? Did you say that there was another with them?”

  “Yes, a young girl,” said Imogen weakly. Seeing that they were about to cross the path leading into the small alcove of trees, she stopped, raising a hand to her cheek. She felt sick to her stomach. “Can we turn around, father? I don’t want to walk in the woods today.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, masking his eyes from her with the excuse of examining the front of his black smock.

  “All this talk of spirits is making me weak,” she said. “I should like to stay near the house.”

  “All right, child,” he said.

  As they turned to retrace their steps Imogen had the distinct impression he was disappointed in her decision.

  Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you ever ride, Miss Imogen?”

  “Yes, often,” she admitted, smiling.

  The vicar hummed at the admission. “When was the last time you went out to ride? We have had fine weather for it, have we not?”

  Imogen paused, trying to recall. “I have been very busy,” she said at last. “Surely I have gone within the last week? Truth be told, I cannot remember the exact time.”

  The vicar nodded as if it was no consequence. They walked in silence until they were back in the garden.

  “A young girl, you said,” reminded the vicar, prompting her to continue her tale.

  “Yes, perhaps eight or nine years. She had golden hair and the brightest green eyes I have ever saw. When I startled her, her hair melted off her head and her skin became all… wrinkly. Tell me, do you know who she is? Is she the Marquis’s daughter?”

  “Mayhap,” said the vicar. “I have never seen them.”

  Imogen glanced up at the library window, wondering if Mr. Weston was still within. Blushing, she looked away. The vicar caught the look, but said nothing.

  “Tell me, why are they showing themselves to me? I have never before seen them and we have lived at Rothfield now for nearly seven months. My sis
ter Jane has often claimed she could hear them about. If anyone should have seen them, it would have been her. She believes in them, I don’t… didn’t.” Imogen paused to study the vicar earnestly. “What do they want?”

  “It is natural that you would have a lot of questions,” he said. “Some people are born seeing them.”

  “But, that is not me,” Imogen protested. “I didn’t even believe or want to believe.”

  “It is not a matter of want.” He smiled kindly. Clearing his throat, he added, “Sometimes when a person comes near death, they begin to see death—mayhap from an accident or particular trauma.”

  Imogen paused in confusion. Her eyes narrowed in thought. She knew there was something she was not getting, but she could not remember. “But, why me?”

  “The ghosts may not want anything to do with you. Perchance you have stumbled upon them. Death is a great mystery. I have heard that sometimes spirits can dwell within the same place and not even know the other is there.” The vicar motioned his hand for her to continue around the house. Imogen walked, absently following his lead. “They pass each other by, never even feeling the other’s presence. Mayhap you were just at the right place at the right time. Mayhap your mind opened in some way or mayhap it was your heart.”

  “Is that why you have come this morning? To reassure me?” Imogen turned her kindest smile on the man as he led her back to the house.

  “Yes, I suppose that is why,” he answered.

  Imogen wondered again at his meaning, but did not press him.

  “Mr. Weston mentioned that you had seen a ghost. He was worried that you might be having a hard time of it.”

  He was worried? thought Imogen, torn between happiness and bewilderment. Her heart fluttered in tentative pleasure. Aloud, she said, “Then, Mr. Weston sees them also?”

  “Not so many, but yes, he has seen a few. So you see, my dear child, you are in good company with us.” The vicar smiled, moving to climb the front steps to the house. Imogen turned to take her leave.

  “Reverend Stillwell, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please feel free to come whenever you wish. And you must have supper with us soon. I am sure the Viscount will be most pleased to receive you. Though, I would not mention this business of spirits if I were you. The Viscountess does not like to hear of such things.”

  “I will be sure never to utter a word to them,” he said diplomatically. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak with our young Mr. Weston. I think it best if I set his mind at ease and tell him you are adjusting quite well. As you may imagine, he is aware of how unusual an experience this can be for someone.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, with a thankful nod. She did indeed feel better after talking to the man, although she could not help but wonder why Mr. Weston didn’t tell her personally of his experiences.

  Taking her leave, she made haste to her bedroom. Her heart overflowed with emotions--most predominately confusion. Why was Mr. Weston so concerned about her? She dared not hope he felt anything above the general, dutiful affection of a tutor to his unruly charge.

  Flinging her weary body on her bed, she closed her eyes. Her arms reached out, finding the softness of her pillow. She hugged it to her stomach, curling herself atop the soft mattress. The exhaustion of her long night set with resoluteness on her limbs and within moments she was fast asleep, dreaming of ghosts in the mist and one man standing solid amidst it all.

  * * * *

  “Reverend,” Dougal acknowledged. He stood from his chair, waiting anxiously to hear what the vicar had to say. “Did you take her to the forest?”

  “I tried,” he admitted. “She would not go.”

  “Did she remember her accident then?” he insisted with a hopeful tone. “She remembers what happened?”

  “No,” the vicar answered. “She just would not go. And when I asked her when she last rode a horse, she could not remember. Mayhap you should get her to go riding with you? Take her over the north field and then see if you can race her into the trees. That one has a wild spirit in her. I think she might meet a challenge if issued right.”

  “I don’t know that such a thing would be possible. She is angry with me,” Dougal admitted.

  “Make it up to her then,” uttered the old man wisely with an unconcerned shrug. “Apologize.”

  “But I did nothing wrong,” Dougal said before adding wryly, “not really.”

  “It does not matter when it comes to women. Surely, you can remember that much of the fairer sex?” The reverend laughed. “Apologize and take her out on the horse. Take her on a picnic, just the two of you. You are her tutor, are you not? She will not think twice about being alone with you. If you do this, mayhap then she will recall what we need her to. Mayhap she will remember what spooked her.”

  “And what saved her,” Dougal whispered quietly. Reaching behind him on the desk, he grabbed Imogen’s letter to her sister. Holding it up for the vicar’s inspection, he said, “She wrote to her sister.”

  “Really?” the vicar said in surprise. “About this?”

  “She wrote about what she saw. She told Jane everything.” Dougal swallowed. He dared not hope. Whispering, he said, “It was Margaret. I know it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the vicar, reaching for the letter. He scanned the letter’s contents. Mumbling awkwardly, he said, “She mentioned seeing a child and a knight on a horse. But there could be hundreds of children—”

  “A black horse,” Dougal broke in eagerly, pointing at the letter. “I know it is Margaret! It is all there. Margaret’s yellow dress, her golden curls. It has to be her.”

  “Even her burns,” murmured the vicar, his gaze traveling over the letter.

  Dougal swallowed. He nodded, fighting the decades of pain that rolled over him. Going to the window, he looked out over the expansive lawn. In a whisper, he said, “Yes, even her burns. It is Margaret. It is my daughter. It has to be. And Imogen is somehow the link between us. She has talked to her. She has talked to both of us!”

  Dougal’s fervent whisper hissed through the library. Turning his tortured gaze to the man of God, he went to him. “Imogen saw her and the man who holds her prisoner. She is the only one who can bring Margaret to me. Cannot you make her remember what happened? Cannot you make her understand that I need her to remember? She is my last hope. She is the key to ending this torment.”

  “I cannot force her to remember until she is ready,” said the vicar. “You know that Dougal.”

  “But…” Dougal began, but, he knew the vicar was right. Bitter with helplessness, he whispered, “Can I not tell her my secret? Mayhap that will help her to come around. I cannot abide lying to her. Every time I see her face, so trusting in me, I grow ill with my deceits. I just want it to end.”

  “No, it is too soon for that. For whatever reason she is comfortable with you as you are. Stay her tutor for now. When the time is right, she will discover the truth on her own.” The vicar glanced once more over the letter. Silently, he held it out. Dougal did not take it.

  “But will she accept it?” Dougal wondered aloud. He did not expect, nor did he receive, an answer. Bowing his head, he swallowed. He hated being helpless. He hated being out of control. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted his life back—a chance to redo what was already done. “What if it takes her years to come around?”

  “Right now she believes that you have also seen a few spirits. In that she will feel connected to you. It might enable her to trust you, talk to you about it,” offered the vicar as a small comfort.

  “She thinks I am alive. She believes it. She touches me as if I was a real man and I feel her as a real man feels a woman. I would tell her the truth of it,” murmured Dougal darkly. “I would stop lying. Until I do, she has no reason to trust in me.”

  “People believe what their minds wish them to believe. Her mind wants you, needs you to be Mr. Weston, her tutor and new friend. Aside from you, she is very alone right now. Think about it from her view—her parents aren’t
speaking to her as a sort of punishment. Her sister’s been banished away, and the servants are ordered to avoid her. You are all she has at the moment. If we tell her too soon, before she is ready to hear it, it might frighten her and incapacitate her in some way.” The vicar motioned soothingly to Dougal, not moving to touch him, knowing he couldn’t. “There have been those in my care who have gone mad from the realization. She is strong and has handled the idea of the spirits better than I could have ever hoped. But she is not ready for everything. You must wait. You must be patient. You must be her friend.”

  “But what if it is too late? What if the knight takes Margaret away from me? I cannot find her without Imogen.” Dougal sat wearily in the chair. He rubbed his forehead, knowing he had no choice but to play along with the woman’s little fantasy. The crease between his eyes deepened. The vicar offered him the letter again. Dougal shook his head and held up his hand in denial. He could not read those damning words, the horrible description of his little girl in the hands of a monster. It was his first sign in so long that Margaret was still around and it was grim. “I just wish she would tell me what she saw the day of her accident. I know something frightened her horse in the forest.”

  “She will tell once she remembers,” said the old man soothingly, not knowing if it was true. “She sees you for a reason.”

  “We shall see,” Dougal mumbled.

  “It is better if her sister does not get this,” stated the vicar. He took the letter and threw it into the fire. They watched the flames eat up the edges until it was well on its way to disappearing into ash.

  “Thank you for coming, Vicar,” said Dougal. He tried to give the reverend a weary smile and failed. His had been a hopeless journey—until now. Now there was the promise of Imogen’s memory to reunite him with his daughter. If her mind did not hold the key, he knew nothing ever would. “Thank you for speaking with her. Mayhap it helped.”

  “It is always a pleasure to see you, my lord Marquis,” the vicar answered with a polite bow of respect.

  “It is a burden to be seen,” Dougal answered back, quietly reserved.