“Margaret,” she called a bit louder, stopping. “Won’t you come and play with me?” She tilted her head to the side to listen and heard the soft pattering of little feet running across dirt. Encouraged by the sound, she tried again. This time, she began to hum the tune the child was fond of. After singing a few bars, she stopped and listened. Following a moment of silence, Margaret’s sweet voice rang out, finishing the tune.
Imogen smiled. Looking out into the fog from whence the sound came, she whispered, “Margaret, come and see me. I want to talk to you.”
“You said you wanted to play,” the child said in a pouting voice from behind her.
Imogen jolted with a start. Twirling around, she saw Margaret. Her little arms were folded defiantly over her small, heaving chest. Her rosebud lips curled down in a pout. Her cheeks were stained red as if she had run a great distance to get to where she was.
“I want to play. I never have anyone to play with me.”
“We will play, darling, but first we must talk,” said Imogen. The girl smiled at the endearment. Her blonde ringlets sparkled with silvery threads as she moved forward, pacified by the promise.
“Very well.” She threaded her hand into Imogen’s, smiling up at her. They began to walk the paths—Margaret skipping more that walking. The girl kicked absently at the mist, twirling it with her feet, commanding it with years of practice to dance in various directions. Imogen followed the child’s lead dutifully. When Imogen didn’t readily speak, Margaret asked, “Are you to be my new mother?”
Imogen hesitated. How could the girl know the secret desire of her heart so readily? She shook off her surprise at the question before saying, “No, I’m not. But I do wish to speak to you about your parents.”
“Yes?” asked Margaret. She let go of Imogen’s arm. Falling to the ground she leaned her face close to the earth. Lightly, she petted the petals of a flower before leaning over to sniff it. Leaving the bud intact, she stood back up.
“Namely, your father,” Imogen added.
Margaret stiffened. She tilted her head, but said nothing.
“Do you remember your father?” asked Imogen. Margaret nodded. Imogen knelt on the ground, lightly touching the girl’s arms. “He misses you a great deal. He wants to see you.”
The girl swallowed nervously. Still she did not move.
“Would you like to see him?” inquired Imogen.
Slowly, the girl nodded. Weakly, she whispered, “Is he angry with me for the fire?”
“No, no,” Imogen reassured her, smoothing the girl’s hair when she saw the child’s eyes were wide and frightened. “He knows it is not your fault. He never was angry with you. He misses you. He has been looking for you for a long time.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“Yes,” Imogen said, glad to see the child wasn’t running away from her. “And I think I was sent to help you find him. Would you like that?”
“Very much,” Margaret said with a little nod.
“Good. Now I cannot promise you will see him right away. But I will not give up until you do see him.” Imogen stood. She took Margaret’s hand in hers and began to lead her to the house.
“What will happen?” asked Margaret tentatively. She gazed trustingly up at Imogen.
Imogen saw a change come over the childlike features, as if they matured beyond her round-cheeked years. She swallowed, not wanting to think about it. But, she had to answer the girl.
“Hopefully, you will both move on to a better place,” stated Imogen.
“Like heaven?” questioned the girl.
“Yes, heaven,” said Imogen. “I bet your real mother is waiting there for you.”
“No,” returned the child, matter-of-factly. “She won’t be.”
“Well, still. You must want to go to heaven,” Imogen said. “I hear that it is a beautiful place.”
“I suppose I must,” muttered the child.
“What is it? Are you frightened?”
“Not really,” said Margaret. “It is just that I never got to live. I have been stuck all these years as a child. I don’t feel like a child anymore. Well, sometimes I do. But, mostly, I don’t. Do you think I will have to remain a child in heaven?”
“I couldn’t say,” Imogen whispered helplessly.
“Are you like an angel? Could you make me real again?” inquired Margaret with a hopeful smile.
“No, I cannot.” Imogen swallowed.
“That is what Josiah said,” muttered Margaret. Her sorrowful green eyes lost some of their shine. “There is so much I want to do yet.”
“Like what?”
“I want to grow up and go to a ball. I want to wear a big beautiful gown covered in jewels and silks. I want to be asked to dance. I want to play the piano again and sing for an audience. I want to… to have a…”
“What?” asked Imogen. Her heart went out to the girl. All the things she had taken for granted, this child had never gotten the chance to do. All Margaret had been able to do was to spend the last half of a century dreaming about them.
“I want a gentleman to call on me. Not now,” stated Margaret with a look of disgust down at her body, “but when I look as old as I feel to be. And I want a wedding—a big wedding here in the garden with lots of cake and white doves.”
“I think that would have been a fine thing to have.”
“There is so much,” whispered the child. Sadly, she shook her head. “Plays, operas, traveling. I have had many years to think about it. It just isn’t fair. Why did that man have to come to my room?”
Imogen hesitated. She remembered too well the girl’s burnt flesh. Margaret saw her expression and smiled.
“It is all right,” the girl said in easy acceptance. “Sir Josiah has told me all about it.”
Imogen continued with the girl to the house.
“Oh!” Margaret gasped suddenly. “I will get to say goodbye to Josiah, won’t I?”
“Ah, sure,” said Imogen. She had not thought of it. “Where is he?”
“In the garden,” answered the girl. She pulled her arm away and began to run. “I will fetch him.”
“Margaret, wait!” Imogen cried, rushing after the swift child.
“I will meet you by the stone bench!” the girl yelled before disappearing into the mist.
Imogen stopped, turning around. She made her way to the front of the house. Dougal, upon seeing her, rushed forward. His eyes scanned anxiously all around her for his daughter. Not seeing her, he murmured, “Where?”
“She is not here,” answered Imogen. Dougal’s face fell in disappointment and she quickly added, “I will take you to meet her. She has gone off to find Sir Josiah.”
“Is she,” began Dougal, unable to finish. His voice trailed off into a tortured breath.
“She is fine,” whispered Imogen. Seeing the raw emotion on Dougal’s face, she knew she was doing the right thing. Unable to help herself, she threaded her arm into his and began to lead him forward. Dougal looked down hesitantly. She felt his arm tremble. Patting it lightly, she turned to motion to the vicar to follow. The man silently acknowledged her and kept several paces behind.
“Imogen…” Dougal began. His gray-green eyes studied her carefully. The silver moonlight reflected off his dark hair. The queue in back pulled the locks neatly from his handsome face. She refrained from lifting her fingers to touch his cheek, able to see the dimple forming in her mind’s eye.
“You don’t have to say it,” she whispered. “I already know.”
“What?” he questioned. “What do you know?”
“You wish to thank me for helping you,” she whispered. She looked away, torn between the need to memorize his every line and wanting to escape the pain looking at him caused her heart. No matter what, she knew the image of him was burned into her soul.
“There is more,” he whispered, “that I would say to you.”
“There is no need,” she returned quietly. “We are friends. There is no ill will between u
s. And I am glad that I can help you with this. I only hope that it works.”
“Yes, friends.” The words felt bitter to his throat. It seemed hardly an adequate word to describe what he felt. “Whatever happens, I know that you tried. And for that I do thank you.”
“Mayhap someday, many years from now I will see you again. Only, you must remember me young for then I will be an old woman and you might not recognize me.”
“It would… will not matter,” he choked out. His hope of finding Margaret was overshadowed by the thought of losing Imogen.
“Then I expect to see you the second I get to heaven,” she quipped. The command of her tone hid the pain she felt.
“It is a promise,” he returned. “I will throw a grand ball for you and we will dance over the clouds. It will be the angelic event of the century.”
Imogen laughed. It was a nice dream—one she could spend a lifetime picturing. Truthfully, she knew she would probably never see him again, not even after death. For who knew what was to come for any of them?
Imogen realized they were nearing the stone bench. She could not see Margaret. Letting go of Dougal’s arm, she motioned him forward. “We are to meet them here.”
“Do you see her?” asked the vicar, coming forward to join the couple.
“Not yet,” returned Imogen. She tried to smile. It was a weak attempt. Turning to gaze down the path, she squinted. “No wait. I think I see her coming.”
Imogen watched as Margaret came forward. Behind her, she dragged Josiah by the hand. The knight nodded his head in greeting but said nothing. His pale features were drawn and tight.
Dougal stared at Imogen’s face. Following her eyes, he scanned the distance. He saw nothing. Glancing at the reverend, he shot him a questioning frown. The vicar looked, shook his head and waved his hand in confusion. The good vicar also saw nothing.
“Is she there?” asked Dougal.
Imogen glanced over at him in surprise. “You can’t see her?”
“What?” asked Margaret, coming to stand in front of Imogen. She let go of Josiah to place her hands on her hips. “Did he not wish to come?”
“No,” began Imogen.
“It wasn’t her then?” inquired Dougal. His voice was sharp out of helplessness.
“Yes,” tried Imogen glancing back at him.
“Then he didn’t wish to see me,” concluded Margaret, instantly coming to tears. She looked in horror at Josiah. “I told you he was still angry with me for the fire.”
“Nay,” began Josiah. He lifted a hand to comfort her. He shot a disconcerted frown at Imogen. “The fire was not your doing.”
Holding up her hands, Imogen commanded loudly, “Wait. Everyone just wait.”
All eyes turned to her. Margaret sniffled, wiping her eyes.
“Don’t cry Margaret,” began Imogen. Josiah and Dougal began talking at once.
“What is happening, m’lady?” inquired Josiah.
“What is wrong?” Dougal demanded. Loudly, he called out, “Margaret! Margaret!”
“Quiet,” Imogen snapped. “I cannot think with all of you talking.”
The men instantly quieted. Imogen took a deep breath. Turning to the vicar, she said, “Can you at least see them?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I only see us three.”
“Everyone is here,” sighed Imogen. Gesturing as she spoke, she said, “Margaret and Sir Josiah, Father Stillwell and the Marquis.”
Imogen reached out to Margaret. The girl took her hand. Turning to Dougal, she lifted his hand in her other palm. Bring her hands together, she asked, “Can you feel that? Your hands are touching.”
“Is this a game?” asked Margaret.
“No, Margaret, this is not a game,” answered Imogen. Dougal couldn’t help himself as he started to chuckle in faint hope. He tried to cover his short laugh. Imogen again questioned, “Can you feel each other?
Both shook their heads in denial. Dougal’s eyes bore forward, willing his daughter to appear, but he felt nothing, saw nothing.
“Reverend?” asked Imogen helplessly. She looked at her hands, trying to force the two of them together. Though they were solid to her touch, they fell through each other like air. Turning to Josiah, she asked, “What do we do?”
He peered at her hands. Shaking his head, he frowned.
And then, before she could speak, she heard the vicar began to chant behind her. She couldn’t understand the Latin words he read aloud from his book. Keeping quiet, she glanced from Dougal to his daughter. A soft glow came to their features. Imogen looked at one and then the other.
Dougal saw a form waver before him. Its small body became outlined as if by a million little stars glowing like the sun. The radiance of it grew around him. Imogen’s hands fell away. He kept his out stretched. He felt flesh form in his palm, molding into fingers.
Swallowing, he watched, as green eyes appeared where there was nothing. The vicar’s words continued, fading softly against the blood rushing in his ears. Seeing the yellow gown he had bought in Paris, he fell to his knees.
“Margaret,” he whispered, not daring to release her hand. He needed to touch her, to confirm to his eyes that she was real.
The girl was not so quick to know him. She blinked heavily, confused by what she saw. Then, hearing her name, she threw herself into his arms and began to cry.
Dougal pressed her to his chest, his eyes shining gratefully at Imogen. Imogen stumbled back, waiting for them to disappear. Her lungs heaved, her heart pounded in a terrible rhythm. Soon it would be over, she told herself. She felt the vicar take her arm, his words completed in a stuttering finish.
A moment passed and then another. Dougal and Margaret stayed before her. Shaking her head, she did not take her eyes away as she whispered to the vicar, “Why aren’t they going? What is wrong?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the vicar in distraction, turning to his book. He began to leaf through it.
Dougal stood after whispering several declarations of love to his daughter. Margaret smiled, returning his sentiments. His hand in Margaret’s, he looked around. Seeing the tall man towering over them, he hesitated.
“Father,” said Margaret happily. She jumped in excitement. “Can you see him now? This is Josiah.”
“Sir Josiah,” acknowledged Dougal, holding his hand out to the knight. Josiah took the offered hand in his to return the acknowledgment. “Thank you for looking after my daughter. I am eternally in your debt.”
Imogen didn’t hear Josiah’s response. Turning around to the vicar, she placed her hand on his book to get his attention. “What happened? Why are they still here?”
“I don’t understand it. I was so sure this would be all.” The reverend scratched his head. Closing the book, he lowered it to his side. “Maybe they were meant to avenge their deaths. Though, it does not make much sense. Usually—”
“No, they have to go,” insisted Imogen. She couldn’t stand for her suffering to be drawn out any longer. Rushing to Dougal and his daughter, she caught his smile as he moved around to face her.
“Can we all play now?” Margaret asked, beaming. “All of us?”
Imogen ignored the girl. Staring Dougal in the eyes, she asked, “Why are you still here?”
“I don’t know,” he said. His eyes softened as they took in her finely arched features. It was a lie. He did know. He was there to be with her. He hugged his daughter to his waist.
“Dougal,” Imogen gasped in warning. “You must leave. Take her out of here. Go!”
“Don’t you want us here?” asked Margaret.
Imogen tried to control her shaking. Seeing she was frightening the child, she whispered, “Yes, but—”
“Mayhap this is heaven,” said Margaret innocently. “I almost feel as if I am in heaven.”
Dougal’s gaze hardened. A frown lined his features as he watched Imogen carefully. He would have thought she would be happy to have him stay.
“Dougal,” she pleaded. Coming up to
him, she looked carefully Margaret before whispering, “You must go, Dougal. Your work here is finished.”
“I cannot.” He saw the torture of his soul mirrored in her gaze. His eyes softened. A smile spread over his features. The whole of his heart came unbidden to his eyes, shining brightly for all to see.
“There is nothing to keep you here,” Imogen insisted.
Josiah bowed behind them, turning to leave. Margaret let go of her father, running to the man to give him a big hug. They could hear her begging him to stay with them. Dougal glanced after her to make sure she was all right. He didn’t want to let her go, but he didn’t want the child hearing his conversation with Imogen.
“There is you keeping me here,” he whispered.
“No, don’t say such things. You mustn’t think them.” Imogen felt his body lean into her. She felt his arms stir as if to hold her. She pulled back. “Save yourself. Save your daughter. You are done here.”
“Mayhap I am meant to help you.”
“I don’t need your help. You must go. We will deal with what must be done here,” she pleaded. “Josiah and I and the reverend will take care of it all. Your duty is to protect Margaret. Please, you must let go of this world.”
“I cannot leave,” he whispered. He lifted his hand, cupping her cheek in his palm. “I’m in love with you.”
“No, you’re not. You are grateful to me,” hissed Imogen. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of his admission, but in truth he was only making it harder on her. Closing her eyes, she said, “I don’t love you. I love Edward. We will be married. So you see there is nothing for you at Rothfield Park.”
“No, you’re not in love with him!” he growled in return. “You cannot be.”
“Go on,” she ordered weakly. Her body was quickly losing the fight. “Take Margaret and leave me be. I wish for my life to get back to normal.”
“I’m not leaving.” His handsome face twitched up at the corner. Imogen was almost trapped by the look in his eyes. Only Margaret’s interruption pulled her back to her senses.
“We don’t have to go, do we?” asked Margaret shyly. “I don’t want to go.”
“No, we aren’t leaving,” stated Dougal, never taking his eyes from Imogen. Her face paled dramatically. Her lips worked in protest, but his solid look stopped her from speaking. She might be denying her feelings, but his affections must be founded if he was still standing before her. He felt the pull of something greater the instant he held Margaret. And though his head told him to go, to protect her, his heart had chosen otherwise. And so they stayed. Finally glancing down at his daughter as she pulled on his hand, he said, “I wish to stay here also. There is much we need to do.”
Mists of Midnight Page 18
