‘Isn’t it always revenge?’ He laughed shortly. ‘The story is that there was this girl … Hm. I was told her name but I forget the details – Alyse, was it? She was a daughter of border gentry around here. Not sure how long ago, but I believe it was around the Civil War. Something like that. She grew up a proper little hoyden, allowed to run wild, but very beautiful too. She was wilful and wouldn’t marry any of the men her father lined up for her, but one day she was out riding – on her own, mind you, and astride the saddle – and she met one of the neighbours, the Lord of Levingshall. My ancestor.’ Morgan smirked, and watching his reflection in that glass his expression struck me as oddly unpleasant. ‘Now, Lord Price – he wasn’t a Morgan back then – was a very handsome man and quite the charmer. She fell for him, head over heels, out there in the greenwood just like in the old songs. He laid her down on the grass so green and lifted her skirt and with a hey-nonny-nonny …’
At that moment there was a draught down the chimney and the fire flattened, shadows leaping across the room. I spun to face my friend in mock alarm. Well, perhaps it was not all mockery. He’d stopped, lips parted over his next word, eyes glinting. He bared his teeth in a grin.
‘Well, let’s say he taught her a few things about riding she hadn’t learnt at home. Gave her a good churn with his cream stick, as they say out here in the country. The lucky lass thought she was in Paradise. And when she slipped off back home that night she couldn’t help thinking about him, about how kind he’d been to her and how helpful and how handsome … And how big was his prick.’ Morgan patted his crotch fondly. ‘The upshot was that next day she got on her horse and rode from her father’s lands to his, all the way to the house here, desperate for a repeat performance. But when she got to Levingshall she found the place was in the midst of wedding preparations. Lord Price was to be married that day to another lady.’
I pulled a face, bracing myself.
‘Of course, if she’d have had the least sense she would have scuttled off quickly and kept quiet about the whole thing and salvaged some dignity. But the silly wench had just lost her maidenhead and was wildly in love and she made the most terrible scene, demanding that he marry her instead, and then begging him, and then cursing him for betraying her – which he hadn’t done, never having promised her anything. Lord Price laughed her out of the place. Alyse jumped on her horse in the end and rode away from the hall to the bridge, where in her rage she threw herself off into the waters. It was spring and the water was icy cold from the hills. Servants dragged her out but she was already stone dead. They buried her in unconsecrated ground of course, being a suicide as well as a whore.’
Poor girl, I thought.
‘A month later, Lord Price was found dead in his bed, as cold as ice and wringing wet – and a look on his face like he’d seen the Devil himself. Luckily he had brothers, but the next one went the same way before they worked out it wasn’t safe for the landholder to stay in his own house.’ He sighed. ‘It’s come down to us through cousins and younger sons. No one in the family wants the damn place, and though the rental income isn’t bad it’s no fortune.’
‘I can see your problem.’
Morgan stretched ostentatiously. ‘And you can see why I’m going to get it sorted out.’
‘Why can’t you keep renting it?’
‘What? And have Cicely in my London house all year round?’ His nose wrinkled. ‘That wouldn’t do, you know.’
I did know. Despite Cicely’s cornflower eyes and Alpine slope of creamy bosom, Morgan had a penchant for other company that would only be hampered by her presence. I shook my head wearily. ‘Then sell this place and buy her a new one.’
‘It’s legally entailed within the family, I’m afraid.’
I almost felt sorry for him. ‘You’ve inherited a bit of a white elephant, haven’t you?’
‘I hope not. I sincerely hope not. And with luck we shall know by the morning, eh?’
‘Mm.’ I wasn’t sure what species of luck he was courting here. I turned back to the mirror and considered re-covering it, rather disliking the shadowy room reflected in the tinted glass. Common sense – or pride – got the better of me though. Discarding the sheet, I turned to the fire for something to keep me occupied, but the blaze had steadied and was burning bright and warm. ‘I’ll go get another basket of logs, shall I?’
‘Shh!’ Morgan held up his hand.
I froze. For a moment there was silence except for the pop and crackle of the flames. ‘What?’ I ventured at last.
‘Shh! That!’
This time round I heard it: a low squeak. In the time it took me to turn and face in the direction of the noise I’d identified it as the sound a wet fingertip makes upon glass. I took a deep breath. The interior shutters in this room were closed and barred, but I knew from the front elevation that the tall rectangular windows were made up of leaded diamonds of glass.
Quietly, with a look of grim satisfaction, Morgan opened his gun case and bent to the weapon within. Breaking it, he slipped in the first cartridge. ‘Open it,’ he said in a low voice.
I barely hesitated. Dropping the steel bar that held the central panel, I pulled the shutter wide open. A multitude of diamond panes reflected the firelight at my back, but the cold draught was immediately felt. The night outside was moonlit and filled with the soughing of the unseen river. Bushes pressed right up to the house; beyond them I could make out the grey wash of a lawn.
Squeak.
‘It’s a branch rubbing on the glass.’ I glanced back triumphantly at Morgan and caught him stood with gun readied but pointed down and away, for which I was grateful.
He cracked a grin. ‘Of course it is.’
I reached out to grasp the shutter again, but stopped mid-motion, puzzled by something half visible through the shrubbery. ‘I say, what’s that on the lawn?’
‘What?’ Morgan grabbed the oil lamp and started forwards, but I waved it away: the more light around me, the less I could see outside the house.
‘Out there – something white on the grass.’
Side by side, we peered out through the thick bubbly glass and the criss-crossed branches, trying to bring into focus the pale object lying out there at some indeterminate distance. I wasn’t even sure it was an object: it might have been a patch of light or a litter of stones. There was no telling how big it was or even if it was moving.
‘What the hell,’ Morgan muttered, really irritated.
‘We’ll get a better view from the landing window,’ I suggested. We would be higher than those damned shrubs up there, and able to look down on the lawn.
‘Good idea.’ Turning decisively, he strode from the room and I followed, bringing the lamp. It was a good thing I did: the hall was in darkness otherwise and the big oak staircase would have been near impossible to negotiate because the moonlight did not fall further than the half-landing. The ancient treads creaked beneath our feet as we ascended. Shoulder to shoulder again, we stared out on to the back garden lawn.
There was nothing out there. The lawn was a sweep of unbroken grey, the trees beyond as black as India ink.
‘Can’t see a damn thing,’ Morgan complained. ‘Are you sure there was something out there?’
‘I thought so.’ I felt chilly all of a sudden, though I attributed it to moving from the only room with a lit fire.
Behind us, the front door knocker crashed. We both jumped like someone had run a galvanic current through us, and spun round to look down the stairs. The ground floor was in impenetrable shadow.
‘Who is it?’ Morgan called. ‘Who’s there?’
There was no answering shout, but the door knocker slammed again.
‘Someone saw the car as we drove through,’ I suggested. ‘They’ve just come to check what we’re doing up at the hall.’
Morgan nodded his emphatic agreement. ‘Most certainly.’ But he lifted his shotgun to his shoulder and pointed it down the stairs.
The knock sounded one last time. Silence fell, as if the ho
use were holding its breath.
‘I’ll go down and answer the door, shall I?’ Straightening my shoulders, I advanced step by step down the oak flight until my feet met the flagstones. I had the lamp in my hand and I turned the wick up to cast as much illumination as possible. One glance behind me told me that Morgan had come down a few steps, but only so that he could cover the front door with his shotgun more effectively. ‘Careful with that,’ I said as mildly as I could.
‘See who’s there, Thorpe.’
I put the lamp upon a table and advanced with every intention of looking outside. I didn’t reach it; a few paces off I stopped, blinking at the dark stain spreading from under the front door. ‘Good Lord.’
‘What,’ said Morgan harshly, ‘is that?’
It was a pool of liquid, seeping out upon the flagstones. In this light and on the dark slate it was impossible to tell what colour the liquid was. I squatted on my heels and dabbled a finger tentatively. It was icy cold. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it to my tongue, but I sniffed at my wet fingers, discerning nothing.
‘It’s … water, I think. Just water.’
‘Then where’s it coming from?’
I couldn’t answer that. As far as I recalled the river had been well within its banks and below the level of the house. It could hardly have risen so rapidly. And the water was spilling out across the slates still, making them as black and reflective as obsidian. I realised I’d have to retreat to keep my shoes dry. Shivering, I turned my back on the door. ‘It’s rather rum, Morgan. Do you think the river has burst its banks?’
His eyes met mine angrily. ‘Since we crossed the bridge?’ Then I saw his face change as his gaze switched back to over my shoulder, and his jaw dropped. The gun jerked in his hand.
Directly at my shoulder, barefoot in the pool, stood a young woman. She had not been there a moment before; she was there when I turned. My heart nearly flew out of my mouth. She wasn’t looking at me; she was staring up at Morgan, her eyes wide and unblinking. She was soaking wet. That was what you noticed about her first of all. She wore a sleeveless white linen shift of some sort and it was so sodden that it clung to her body and had turned half transparent on her pale skin. Her long dark hair was plastered to her shoulders.
‘Oh my good God,’ I whispered to myself.
She was shivering visibly. Like a dog that’s spotted a squirrel. Or a young woman soaked to the bone on an October night.
‘Can you see her?’ Morgan demanded.
‘Good grief, yes.’ She looked completely solid, completely real. I could see pearls of river water tracking slowly down her marble cheeks.
‘Where did she come from? I looked up and she was just there!’ His voice was screechy with shock and outrage, but the shotgun was aimed straight at her, unwavering. I was far from confident that at this distance the spread would not catch me too.
‘Morgan –’
‘What in damnation do you think you are, miss?’
It was hard to blame him; her sudden appearance, her utter motionlessness, her fixed glare directed on him alone, the legend of the Morgans’ nemesis … If it had been my own self in his place I’m sure I would have been just as alarmed. As it was I was stupid with shock. I just stood looking, transfixed.
She took a step towards the stairs. Instead of leaping out of the way of any blast I put my hand out to her and touched her shoulder. She was as cold as a stone from the bottom of a Welsh river, but perfectly present to my hand, her skin soft and smooth. And at my impetuous touch her legs folded beneath her and she slithered into a swoon, falling against me. Without thinking I caught her into my arms, my instinct to save her from the wet flagstones. And suddenly there I was, standing speechless with the slender limp form of a maiden from beyond the grave in my arms, looking up at my friend almost apologetically as he gaped back at me.
‘Thorpe!’
I shrugged helplessly, a Gallic mannerism I had acquired and often been berated for by my friends.
He ran down the stairs to me, lowering the shotgun at last. ‘What are you doing?’
‘She’s cold,’ I said. My shirt front was already soaked through from her. ‘We should … should get her to the fire, should we not?’
He laid one hand on her head, not without trepidation, to check for himself that this was a real girl and not some figment of his imagination. Her dark eyes were half open. She moaned faintly at his touch, the first sound we’d heard from her. Looking down I could see the sweep of her lashes, the pallor of her full lips, the peak of a hard nipple jutting against the wet linen. If this was not a real woman then I had never known one that was.
‘Well then.’ Morgan sounded dazed. ‘I suppose we should.’
I carried her through to the parlour. She was a slender slip of a thing, hardly any effort to hold. I knelt with her in front of the fire. ‘Get the counterpane.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He brought the quilted cotton throw from the chaise longue and we wrapped her in it. She did not struggle, even though she seemed to regain consciousness at the first lick of firelight warmth. She put her hand on Morgan’s as he arranged the folds and when he snatched it away she watched him with yearning eyes.
‘Ghost my arse,’ he huffed. ‘This one’s real enough.’
I was supporting her head with my hand and most of her slight weight was leaning against me. ‘Real, perhaps,’ I said, and my tongue felt numb as I spoke. ‘There’s no warmth in her, Morgan. And I can’t feel …’
‘What, man?’
‘I’m not certain she has a pulse.’
‘Rubbish.’ He put his hand to her throat. She stirred, arching her neck, reaching up to take his hand and draw it down her breastbone. He let her guide him for a second, then pulled from her grasp and sat back hard, his eyes as wide as hers and his face very nearly as pale. ‘Good Lord.’
I was feeling dizzy. ‘Morgan …’
‘What’s your name, young lady?’ he asked her, his teeth showing under his lifted lip. ‘Who are you, by God?’
She lay back against me as if exhausted. There was a profound vacancy in her eyes. Morgan lurched forwards and grabbed her face. I tried to protest; he ignored me.
‘Who the devil are you, you hussy?’ he shouted. She only whimpered. His fingers were biting into her skin.
‘Morgan, I’m not sure she can talk –’
‘Really? Let’s see.’ He released her, only to slap her across the face. ‘Found your tongue yet?’
‘Morgan!’
He looked at me as if I were a stranger. She moaned, then reached out her hands to him. He recoiled, jumped to his feet and began to pace about the room. Her gaze followed him, as if he was the most fascinating man on earth. There was no blush of blood to her abused cheek. There was no fear or anger in her expression, only a formless longing.
‘Morgan, I think she’s mute and a bit … simple.’
‘You think so?’ All his confusion and frustration was coming out as temper, as usual. ‘And dead?’
I became aware that the counterpane bundle was sodden all the way through. I couldn’t answer him directly. ‘She’s still soaking,’ I muttered. ‘We ought to find her a blanket or something dry to wear.’
Morgan laughed.
I unfurled a corner of the quilt in order to expose her arm to the fire. The skin was still wet. Droplets stood up in the delicate crease of her elbow. Water was still running out of her hair. I bit my lip. The counterpane should at the very least have blotted up this moisture. This was not natural.
‘Want my jacket?’ Morgan asked with ill humour.
‘She’s still soaked. I think the water’s coming from her.’
Cautiously, he circled back for a better look. ‘We could get her out of that wet dress.’
My mouth was dry, to make up for the cold water wicking into my clothes from the girl. Her linen shift was translucent where it adhered to her skin and tented over the pebble of her nipple. That detail had not escaped Morgan either; he hunkered in front of he
r and ran his fingertips down the inside edge of her shift’s deep neckline. ‘What do you say, Alyse? Like to get out of your nasty petticoat?’
She didn’t respond to the name. But she took his hand and laid it on her full teardrop-shaped breast, and a hungry breathy noise issued from those pale lips.
‘Well, ghost or no, there’s no doubt what sort of a girl she is,’ Morgan murmured, his voice thickening to hoarseness.
‘I don’t like this,’ I stammered.
‘Really? You should get a handful of what I’ve got.’ He squeezed, and she moaned and surged into his grip, her shoulders writhing against my chest.
‘Morgan!’
‘Stop being such a bloody prude, man.’ He sniggered, and I could see the doubt and the nervousness evaporate from him. ‘She’s frantic for this, can’t you see?’ He grinned foxily. ‘Maybe this is what she wanted all along, all those years. Think about it – she came to the house desperate to make the beast with two backs with Lord Price, and died unfulfilled. Maybe all she’s needed is for someone to give her what she wants. Maybe she just needs the master of Levingshall to give her a good, hard seeing-to.’
‘So now she is the ghost?’
‘I don’t give a damn what she is, old chum. Except that she’s wet and wide for it.’
‘Think about Cicely!’ I protested, as the girl rolled her head back on my shoulder, her lips parted, little breathy pants shaking her breasts as Morgan played with them. Her aroused nipples poked through the wet linen like accusing fingertips.
‘I’ve thought about Cicely until my balls are blue,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare reproach me Thorpe. I’ve had enough of waiting for what’s mine. Now the Lord of Levingshall is going to do his duty.’ He took hold of the wet cloth. ‘Let’s get you out of those wet things, shall we my girl?’
With a good hard pull and a twist, he tore her shift open down the front. Unnecessary, I thought. But I said nothing. I have always been weak compared with Morgan. And despite my protests and my misgivings, it would be dishonest to pretend that the darker part of me was not moved by that girl moaning and writhing in my lap.
Dark Enchantment Page 9
