Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  * * * *

  The bright rays of summer warmed the gardens. The fragrant scents of flowers, trees and grasses rode on the gentle winds. The white cotton of the clouds spotted against the delicate blue of the heavens. Rothfield Park was peaceful. The land was quiet with the approach of a new morning.

  Imogen did not find Margaret, though she looked. She did not find anyone. She was alone. Tearfully, she had clawed her way through the forest. She tore furiously at tree limbs as she darted past. With blind precision, she found herself in the garden settled on the stone bench overlooking the yard. And there she sat, having no will to go on. With Dougal gone, she had nothing.

  Mist still came with the dusk but its thickness was tempered and it clung mostly to the trees. Imogen was not frightened of it. She knew it could be controlled. The mist was not good or evil, just a thing to be used and commanded by either.

  Sitting alone on the stone bench of the garden, she waited. She watched the passing of time, the stirrings of mornings, and the restlessness of nights. Time had no meaning for her. Days could have passed by and she would not have differentiated them from years. She kept vigil, only fading when her spirit grew too weary to continue. And after a rest, she would again appear in her spot, waiting for someone to come to her.

  Not once did she leave her post. One day the silently beckoning call of Jane made her turn her head. Jane was married to the Colonel in the garden in front of family and friends. Imogen watched, happy for her sister. She wished she were alive so she could go to her and join in the celebration.

  The family’s guests did not notice the onlooker, did not sense her presence. Only once did Jane turn, catching Imogen’s gaze briefly in the sunlight. The bride smiled, proud and happy, but her ghostly sister had dissolved as a cloud passed over the sun.

  Imogen saw her parents, looking a bit older but none the worse for wear. She saw Edward and Harriet, neither speaking to the other. Edward even sat beside her on the bench, never knowing she was there. Imogen watched his face in silence and before she knew it, he was gone.

  The day faded like all the others. Snow came, sending only the slightest of chills through her. Imogen still did not move. Then, on a particularly chilly day, she saw the Colonel pushing through the heavy banks of snow. Tugging his coat over his shoulders, he came to the bench. His eyes squinted as he stared at the empty space. Quietly, he said, “Your sister wishes for you to come in out of the cold. It is Christmas and you should be with your family.”

  Imogen blinked in surprise, watching the white puffs of air coming from his cold lips. The Colonel stroked his mustache lightly.

  “I assume you are here, sister,” he murmured. “I can’t see you now, but I have seen you in the moonlight at this post. I don’t know why you wait, but you are welcome as long as you like. The bench is yours. No one will bother you here.”

  With that, the Colonel turned, stomping his way back into the house.

  “I wait,” whispered Imogen, “because there is naught else I can do. I do not wish to live without my sweet Dougal. And if he is around, he will come for me here. For this is the place we first met.”

  Hearing the call of a bird, her eyes averted to the sky. Wistfully, she sighed. It was again spring.

  Imogen adjusted on the bench, stretching her hands above her head. A rabbit hopped nearby, sniffing at a peeking flower. Her legs felt like lead. Standing for the first time since her vigil began, she yawned. Then, hearing the soft crunch of footfall on the path, she turned around. Her heart sped as her eyes hungrily sought the distance. She waited in breathless suspension, but as the intruder came into view, her smile wavered. It was Reverend Stillwell.

  “Miss Imogen!”

  “Reverend,” she whispered. Her legs trembling, she fell to the ground and began to weep.

  “There now,” cried the vicar, gathering her up into his arms. Slowly he lifted her back onto the bench. “What is this?”

  “I thought you were Dougal,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I was waiting for him.”

  “Oh, child,” said the vicar. He patted her shoulder lightly before drawing away. Imogen studied his kindly face, his pleasant eyes. “I should not have stayed away from you so long.”

  “How long has it been?” she asked wearily.

  The vicar’s eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t know? What have you been doing?”

  “I have been right here,” she stated. Suddenly, she heard the singing of a child. Margaret skipped up the path. Imogen’s heart again sped. In a hush, she murmured, “Margaret?”

  “Yes, Margaret is staying with me,” answered the vicar.

  “With you?” shot Imogen. “Then—?”

  Margaret stopped to pick a flower near the rabbit. The creature hopped over to smell her outreached hand. The vicar waited patiently.

  “Then you haven’t seen him?” Imogen whispered.

  “No. No one has seen him. I believe he has made his peace. His spirit has moved on.” Reverend Stillwell saw the frown marring her brow. Quietly, he added. “Be happy for him, Miss Imogen. It is a good place he has gone to.”

  Imogen swallowed with difficulty.

  “Have you been here all year?” asked the vicar.

  Imogen nodded. “I prayed he would come. But now there is no hope for it. It is useless. I cannot live. I cannot move on. I cannot have the man I love.”

  “You still wish to live?” asked the vicar quietly.

  “Yes,” she answered. “If I am not thinking of Dougal, I am thinking of how much I miss being alive.”

  Imogen sighed. Looking over at the vicar, she asked, “How is Margaret?”

  “She cries a lot. She misses her father and Sir Josiah. It is not my place to say, but I believe that sometimes the child’s affections for the knight are beyond the affections of a child for a guardian. I have been told what happened, what you did.” The vicar rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I would have come to you sooner about it, but I have been busy helping the lost souls you freed find their way.”

  “Lost souls?” Imogen gasped in surprise.

  “You don’t know?” he asked in amazement.

  “No,” she answered. “I came straight here that morning and have not left.”

  “What you did that night,” he began, shaking his head in awe. “Your gallantry and Sir Josiah’s sacrifice released all of the demon’s captured souls. Their spirits marched through the countryside in a long procession. You should have seen it. There were a lot in need of my council.”

  “I had no idea,” she whispered.

  “It is why…” the vicar began quietly.

  Imogen turned to him.

  His eyes lowered as he began again, “It is why I have been sent to make you a great offer.”

  “Offer?” she repeated. Her heart thought of Dougal. Unable to hide her hope, she said, “Dougal?”

  “No,” said the vicar. “I cannot bring him back.”

  “Then, what?” she said in disappointment.

  “I have been charged to offer you the gift of life,” the vicar said.

  “Life?” questioned Imogen.

  “Yes, if you want it,” he answered. “It is what you want, is it not? To live?”

  She watched Margaret in the distance. The girl’s face was wistful and sad, not the happy countenance of a true child. Imogen thought of everything that the child had never had a chance to experience—of everything she, herself, missed. And here was her opportunity to get it all back for herself.

  “Yes,” she agreed weakly after much thought. Her limbs shook. She thought mournfully of Dougal. “I do want to live. I want it more than almost anything.”

  “So you have made your decision then? You will take this gift of life?” asked the vicar.

  Imogen swallowed with an effort. Either way, Dougal was lost to her. She watched Margaret pick another flower. Her heart pounded. This was her chance.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I will take the gift.”

  Chapter Seve
nteen

  “I am so glad you are returned to us!” Jane gushed happily. She looked over at her sister lying on her bed to make sure she was real. “I nearly fainted yesterday, seeing you in the foyer. I have missed you so much.”

  “I missed you, too,” whispered Imogen. She crawled off the bed, moving slowly over to the window. Pressing her forehead to the glass, she looked out over the estate. An acute sadness surrounded her, one that she could not hide.

  “I daresay, since first seeing your spirit I see them all the time. I saw a maidservant this morning in the dining room. Though I don’t think she saw me. She was cleaning something that wasn’t there.” Jane paused to examine her needlepoint before selecting a pink thread. “I swear people will think I am crazy, always trying to talk to walls and such.”

  “That would be Charlotte,” answered Imogen. “She is harmless. She likes to keep busy.”

  “Oh.” Jane giggled. “It is a good thing mother is gone. I assume she will never visit. At my wedding she refused to come into the house. She is convinced some painting jumped out of her hands and ran away.”

  Imogen giggled. Jane raised a suspicious eyebrow. Before her sister could ask about it, Imogen said, “I cannot believe I am to be an aunt. I daresay the Colonel is almost choking with pride.”

  “As well he should,” answered Jane, patting her still-flat stomach. Lifting her needlepoint, she examined the rose pattern carefully. “I am so glad you will be here to help me with it.”

  “You know, he came to talk to me,” said Imogen.

  “Who?” asked Jane, lowering her sewing to her lap.

  “The Colonel,” replied Imogen, “last winter when I was on the bench. I think it was right before Christmas. He came out and asked me to come inside. He said I would always be welcomed here.”

  “He did?” gasped Jane. “He never told me.”

  “He couldn’t see me,” continued Imogen. “I think part of him even doubted I was there.”

  “He knew,” stated Jane. “We both knew you were there.”

  Imogen turned, forcing a sad smile before glancing back out over the distance.

  “Imogen?” Standing, Jane crossed to the window. She placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Why were you on the bench so long? Why didn’t you come inside?”

  “I was waiting,” she whispered. Imogen closed her eyes to the pain. She could recall every detail of him as if no time had passed. She thought of Dougal—of his green-gray eyes that haunted her, his dark hair, the small birthmark beneath one eye. She ached to smell his scent, to taste his mouth, to feel his skin. Her heart burned with love, a love she could not feel returned in the gaze of his eyes.

  Jane didn’t understand. With a sigh, she muttered, “It must be a spirit thing. I suppose time passes differently for you now.”

  “How so?” mumbled Imogen absently.

  “Well, there is this man in the library who seems to be waiting for something too.” Jane looked up, startled by Imogen’s gasp.

  Imogen’s face was pale. Her hands shook violently as she turned to look at her sister’s door.

  “I…” Imogen began, unable to finish her sentence. Her heart flung wildly in her chest. She didn’t dare to hope. Without a backward glance, she ran from her sister’s room. Jane watched her in surprise.

  Imogen raced through the hallways, tearing around the front hall, her feet sliding on the slick floor. Then, pausing by the library, she gasped for breath. Her fingers shook as she reached out to touch the door. Turning the knob, she pushed it open. The door creaked. She watched the opened doorway.

  Closing her eyes, she stepped inside. She was unable to look. Weakly, she said, “Dougal?”

  “Imogen?”

  A smile spread over her features. Her heart fluttered. With a cry, she turned her moist eyes to the sound. It was Dougal. He stood by her father’s old desk. Her entire form shaking, she stared at him, too afraid to move.

  “Dougal,” she said breathlessly. “Can it be true?”

  Dougal crossed the floor in great strides. He grabbed her into his embrace, pressing his lips to hers. Imogen moaned against his mouth. Pulling away, she looked up to make sure he was real. Her hands ran over his face, his neck.

  “I love you,” she whispered in a rush, knowing it the most important thing she ever needed to say.

  “Oh, Imogen,” he answered, pulling her close to his beating heart. “I love you, too.”

  Imogen smiled, clutching him to her. Demandingly, she ordered, “Never leave me again. I could not bear it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I thought you had moved on,” she whispered. Tears of happiness entered her eyes.

  “Moved on?” he chuckled as if the idea were the most absurd thing he had ever heard. Then, seeing her emotional expression, he questioned, “Why are you shaking so?”

  Imogen looked up into his eyes. Weakly she mumbled, “You don’t remember?”

  “Remember? You banished me away from you but seconds ago,” he answered. “I came here to wait for you to call me back. I knew you would come back to me. And so you have. Now we can face dangers in the mist together.”

  “I am not afraid of the mist. The mist is not evil. It is only what you allow it to be. We control the mist,” Imogen said. “The demon Josiah used it to feed into our fears.”

  “Josiah?” questioned Dougal in mounting alarm. “He is the demon?”

  “Was,” Imogen said. “Dougal, a year has passed. The demon is gone. We are safe.”

  “But—”

  “I promise to tell you the entire story another time,” she answered. “Right now, I just want to hold you.”

  “Margaret?” he questioned in fear.

  Imogen froze.

  “What is it?” he shot. “Has something happened to her?”

  “Yes,” Imogen said carefully.

  “What? You must tell me.”

  “She’s alive,” Imogen whispered.

  “Then let us go find her.”

  “We cannot just yet,” said Imogen. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Why? We just need to call out to her. Our spirits will find each other,” explained Dougal.

  “When I said she was alive, I meant alive-alive,” stated Imogen. Her eyes shone lovingly as she refused to move from Dougal’s embrace. He was content to let her stay there. “As in ‘of the living’.”

  “But, how?” he said in disbelief.

  “It is a long story.” Imogen said, knowing he would not be content until he knew everything. Quickly, she told him of what had happened to her since their last parting. Finally, finishing with the choice Reverend Stillwell had given her, she said, “I was given the gift of life, so I took it. And I gave it to Margaret. She is alive, Dougal, and so beautiful. You would not recognize her.”

  “Father?”

  Imogen and Dougal turned to the door. The young woman who returned their eager stares smiled prettily. Her blonde hair was swept up into a coiffure on the top of her head, the plaits bound together with green ribbons and flowers. Her matching green eyes glittered brilliantly from a slender face full of feminine beauty.

  “Margaret?” Dougal gasped in awe, looking at a very grown-up version of his little girl.

  “I knew that you were finally here,” Margaret said as she came forward. Imogen stepped aside to let the father hug his daughter. “I could feel you talking about me.”

  “But, how?” he murmured, touching Margaret’s face. The slender features suited the old wisdom in her eyes better than the body of a child.

  “It seems I had a few stipulations to add into the gift,” said Imogen. “I told the reverend that Margaret was to be the youthful age of her wisdom and that she was to have the happiness her heart deserved.”

  Margaret blushed. Then, nodding eagerly at her father, she said, “Imogen gave up her own life for mine. And Lady Jane has agreed to let me live as her ward. She and the Colonel have been very kind to me. They said they will throw me a ball to bri
ng me out into society properly.”

  Dougal looked over his daughter’s head. Then, turning his gaze to Imogen, he mouthed, “Thank you.”

  “I wanted to live,” she admitted, “but it would have been no life without you. You are my life. Without you there is nothing. Part of me still hoped that one day I would find you. And I have.”

  “And you will never lose me,” he promised, “nor me, you.”

  “Ugh,” teased Margaret, wrinkling her nose. Imogen giggled. Smiling slyly, Margaret blushed in remembrance of her girlish question as she inquired, quite smartly, “So are you going to be my mother?”

  “Yes,” Dougal answered for her. Then loudly, he said, “Reverend Stillwell, you are needed.”

  Almost instantly, the vicar was there. Scratching his head, he glanced around at the three. Weakly, he stuttered, “How?”

  “Time has a funny way of moving for us spirits,” Imogen said.

  “That it does,” said Dougal. He leaned down to kiss Imogen. Imogen moaned, forgetting they were watched.

  “You need to marry them,” whispered Margaret to the vicar. Then, giving a meaningful glance at the couple, she added wryly, “Quickly.”

  Reverend Stillwell beamed. Clearing his throat, he said, “Hold on there. Do you both choose each other?”

  “Yes,” Dougal assured him, breaking only slightly from the kiss. It had been too long since he had held her. He never wanted to let her go.

  “Yes,” echoed Imogen in-between breaths.

  “Then you are married,” stated the vicar.

  “What?” Imogen laughed, looking doubtfully at the man. “That cannot be right.”

  “Ah, we’re dead,” proclaimed the vicar with a shrug. “What else do we need? Not like anyone is going to come to the ceremony.”

  Margaret rushed forward, giving them both quick hugs and her congratulations. Then, pulling back, she asked, “So will you come to my ball?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Dougal said, laughing contentedly. “What delightful pranks we can play on your guests!”

  “Oh, Father! You won’t ruin it for Jane, will you?” Margaret said beseechingly. Her eyes belied the fact that it was not Jane she was worried about.