Ghosts from the Past (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies)

by Charles, Jane

  Sophia glanced at her friends. Eliza looked around the room, at anything but the three adults before them. Rosemary bit her bottom lip and stared at the floor. She nudged Eliza. It had been her idea after all.

  The young woman peered up. “We left immediately.” She swallowed before continuing. “We only opened and closed our door before sneaking down the back stairs and out through the kitchen.”

  “I could wring all of your necks.” Miss Morris took a step forward. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been for the three of you? Do you?”

  The girls stepped back from the overwrought teacher.

  “Punish them later, Miss Morris.” Lord Atwood’s voice seemed to calm her. “Where did you see Miss Pritchard?”

  “On the path, in the woods,” Rosemary answered.

  Sophia’s face heated when she remembered her teacher’s embrace with the strange man. Thank goodness Eliza rushed on to tell them everything they had seen.

  Lord Atwood turned to his wife. Concern marred his brow. “Do you know who she could have been meeting?”

  Lady Atwood bit her bottom lip and wrinkled her brow. “No, I am sure she would have mentioned it to me or Miss Morris if she had a love interest. And, she certainly would not have carried on secretly.”

  “Can you describe this man?” Lord Atwood focused back on the girls.

  Sophia glanced at her friends. They all shrugged. “It was too dark. But he was about as tall as you.”

  “He must be the ghost who has been seen everywhere.” Eliza announced.

  Sophia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Only Eliza would voice this possibility.

  “He has been searching for his love and can’t move on until he finds her. Maybe he thought it was Miss Pritchard, but he didn’t get to kiss her and has been waiting until he could.” Eliza’s eyes grew wide. “What if she is the one? The ghost surely won’t let her go until they can be together for eternity. He did carry her away. We might never see her again.””

  “He is not a ghost!” Lady Atwood dismissed.

  “Are you so sure?” Eliza argued.

  Sophia held her breath. If Eliza kept arguing she was going to be in grave trouble.

  “The ghost is a flesh and blood man, not a ghost.” Lady Atwood snapped.

  “A kissing ghost,” Miss Morris muttered, her face completely drained of color.

  Lord and Lady Atwood shared a look. To Sophia’s mind it was the same one her parents shared when they silently agreed to discuss a matter when she was not around.

  “I will check into it.” Lord Atwood announced. “Now, return to the party, if Miss Morris is going to allow it. Send Mrs. Wiggons to me. I have a few questions.”

  Sophia paused in the doorway. “You will find her, won’t you?”

  Atwood’s face softened. “We will and I am sure she is perfectly safe.”

  Anton paced through the house. Now that he had Natasha, what was he going to do with her? Vanko was right; he should have had a more detailed plan for his revenge.

  For over a year he had thought of nothing but finding Natasha and now she was his and confined in his cellar. He thought a year without freedom as he had lived, minus the beatings and torture, would be justice enough. Now he realized just how impractical that would be. She had friends who would note her absence. He had to take her away from here. But to where and how could he get her out of the house and away from the town without anyone seeing her? He paused at the window, looked out over the sea and sighed. He could find a boat and sail away from here, but he would have to travel to a larger city to obtain a better vessel because the fishing boats in this village would never do. Unless he simply used one to get them away from the area. Vanko could meet them further up the coast with a carriage.

  Anton leaned his forehead against the cold glass. Her pleas were so real, as was her panic. Of course she would be afraid. She now realized he knew the truth. How long before she begged for forgiveness, not that it would ever come?

  Was Dimitri really dead, or was it another lie? Natasha would protect her brother and in time he—Anton—would get the truth out of her. What about the Englishman? Was it simply another tactic to shift the blame from her?

  He sighed, pulled away from the window and pushed his fingers through his hair. She was so convincing it frightened him. But, these abilities had nearly gotten him killed once and he must not soften toward her. Her tears and sobs would not weaken him.

  He paced forward, put his hands on the windowsill and looked out at the garden, now overtaken with weeds. His captors had insisted that Dimitri remained to give evidence against him, as did Natasha. Yet, she insisted they left that night and Dimitri was dead. Was she lying to him now? Which led back to the question of why was she here and called Natalie?

  Anton threw his head back. This was so frustrating. Before he completed his wife’s punishment, he needed to hear her version of that night and the months that followed. In the details the truth would be revealed. Or, in this case, the lies.

  He swung around and marched for the door. These endless questions running through his mind were getting him nowhere. It was time to interrogate her.

  Anton threw open the door at the top of the stairs. “It is time you tell me the truth.”

  He waited for her demand to be taken from the cell. He would have enjoyed hearing her beg, but only silence answered him. It was impossible for her to escape and he would be surprised if she slept. Anton took the steps one at a time in slow deliberation. What game did she play? He stopped beside the one lamp that had been left lit and glanced toward her cell.

  The sun had shifted and the far side of the room was now in darkness. Not that there had ever been much light to begin with, but her portion of the basement faced southeast so some light did seep in through the few small windows in the morning hours.

  He strolled to the door. She had not uttered a word. If he did not know any better, he would have thought the room empty. When he finally drew up to the cell and raised the lamp to view in his heart stopped. She lay on the cot facing the door, her knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes remained fixed on a spot across the room—the stairs leading out.

  “Natasha!” He sat the lamp on the floor then fished the keys from his pocket. His hands shook. It took him a moment to fit the key into the lock. It clicked and he threw the door open then ran to her side. “What have I done?” He smoothed her red-gold tresses then tapped her cheek gently with the back of his fingers. She didn’t stir.

  “Natasha! Pajalsta, come back to me.” He tapped her face again, a little harder this time. She did not react.

  11

  He was deeply sensible of the confusion he had occasioned her, and knew that apologies

  would not restore the composure he had so cruelly yet unwarily disturbed.

  A Sicilian Romance

  Ann Radcliffe

  The ribbons from the May Day pole hung limp, disturbed occasionally by a light breeze. There was no laughter or games. No queen had been crowned. Flower wreaths wilted on the heads of young girls. Women waited expectantly. The younger children still played, oblivious to the worry engulfing the adults who awaited the men to return from their search. A few of the older girls watched the small ones and matrons stood sentry from their spots in the shade.

  Just a few hours earlier the men had left, on horseback and foot, to find Miss Pritchard. The tables, laden with food, remained untouched. Those who stayed back at the estate were not hungry and the women felt it best to have sustenance at the ready for when the men returned.

  “Oh, I wish I could have seen him better.” Sophia wrung her hands and paced in the front of the house.

  “It is hard to see a ghost,” Eliza insisted from her spot on the blanket under the shade tree.

  “He’s not a ghost.” Sophia’s exasperation grew at her friends continued fanciful thoughts.

  “But we can’t describe him,” Rosemary added.

  She turned o
n her friend. “Can a ghost pick up a person and carry them away?”

  Rosemary shrugged.

  “How do you know they can’t?” Eliza pinned Sophia with a look. “Few have seen a ghost and I am willing to wager there is much we don’t know of their existence.”

  Sophia searched skyward, as if she could find the elusive answers there. When would these two ever develop enough sense to know the difference between imagination and the truth staring them right in the face?

  “Do you think Miss Pritchard is unharmed?” Rosemary’s voice quivered and Sophia regretted any uncharitable thoughts.

  “I am sure she is fine,” she insisted. At least I hope so.

  “What if they never find her?” Tears pooled in Rosemary’s eyes.

  Sophia strode forward and clasped her friend close. “Of course they will find her. Where could they have gone in so short a time? The man was on foot.”

  “Who is to say he didn’t have a horse hidden, or a carriage?”

  Sophia glared at Eliza over Rosemary’s shoulder.

  Eliza shrugged. “It is possible. And, if he is a ghost, he could have carried her anywhere.”

  Rosemary’s shoulders shook and Sophia tried her best to comfort her friend by patting her back.

  “Enough, Eliza. He is not a ghost so cease insisting he is.”

  “Do you have proof he is not?” Eliza challenged.

  Rosemary pulled away, sniffed, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Do you? Maybe he is her destined love and he left life too early.”

  She couldn’t believe these two and was through arguing. “Fine! Believe what you will.” Sophia turned and stomped away.

  They scurried behind her. “Wait, we need to make a plan.”

  Sophia whipped around. “Plan? What plan?” She practically screamed the questions, but she no longer cared.

  Eliza and Rosemary drew up short. “To find Miss Pritchard,” Eliza slowly explained.

  “How, pray tell, do you intend to do that? Do you have a crystal ball that tells you where she is?”

  “No, but I have a very good idea.”

  Sophia anchored her fists on her hips, stared at her friend, and waited for her to continue, ready to scream if more fantastical ideas spouted from her mouth.

  “Creighton Manor.” Eliza crossed her arms over her chest, shoulders back in a stance almost defying Sophia to argue with her.

  She opened her mouth to tell Eliza it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard and then remembered the lights. Her pulse raced for a reason that had nothing to do with her frustration with Eliza and Rosemary at the moment. There had been lights at the manor almost every night since they had first seen them. “The lights.”

  “Exactly.” Eliza grinned, her arms dropped to the side. “We need to sneak inside to look for Miss Pritchard.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Rosemary shifted her weight from one leg to other.

  “We need to tell an adult,” Sophia insisted

  “Why, so they can ignore us? Our teachers didn’t believe us when we saw the light the first time, which is why we didn’t mention it again. If they didn’t believe it before, they won’t believe it now,” Eliza argued.

  Sophia bit her bottom lip. Eliza did have a point and she saw the light as clearly as her friends. Someone was in that manor and that person could very likely have Miss Pritchard. “Very well. When do we go?”

  “As soon as we can get sneak away.” Eliza glanced around. “Too many are keeping an eye on us right now. We might have to wait until tonight.”

  Anton bent, scooped Natasha up in his arms then hurried from the cellar. He saw this happen to a man in prison. He too had curled up in the same manner. They’d tried what they could to bring him around, but the man eventually died in the corner, his gaze fixed on the door.

  He took the stairs two at a time and paused when he arrived in the kitchen. For a moment he stood, not sure what to do. Should he return her to the chamber above? Would she find comfort in the bed? Or, should he take her outside? Da, outside.

  He strode to the door off the hall and while he balanced Natasha in his arms he bent to turn the handle of the door then pushed it open. He stepped into the enclosed garden, now shaded, and looked around. Perhaps this was too confining as well. He turned and strode back across the hall and through the kitchen and into the gardens at the back of the house. Wind came off of the sea and tossed Natasha’s hair about, but she did not react. He stopped and looked around. Sun or shade?

  Sweat trickled down his brow and his heart beat an erratic tattoo. The sun. Perhaps the warmth and brightness would jolt her out of this state. He marched into the garden and located a stone bench surrounded by weeds and sat down.

  Anton leaned down and murmured into her hair, “Pajalsta, come back to me, Natasha. I didn’t know.” He kissed her temple. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

  Sunlight shone on her face, but she had yet to come out of her trance. He wasn’t even sure it was a trance, but knew of no other words to describe her state. She stared straight ahead and her body lay limp. He laid her on the bench then knelt on the ground. Anton tapped her face gently again. Nothing. She had no reaction to her surroundings or him. Panic seized his throat, but he forced it away. Surely there was something he could do, if only he could think.

  Yes, he wanted to punish her and wanted the truth, but he never dreamed it would come to this. Though he had not envisioned the end of their relationship when he set out to confront her, only thinking in terms of capturing her, he knew, in his heart, that no real harm would come to her. As much as he wished to hurt Natasha, he did not have it in him to do so. He supposed, when it was all over, he would simply exit her life, a better and stronger man. Now what was he to do? He could not leave her in this state.

  Water.

  That was it. Anton rose and walked to the well just outside the back door. He lowered the bucket and let it fill then pulled it back up. The cool liquid sloshed on his pants as he walked back to the bench, but he did not care. He dipped his fingers then flicked the droplets on her face.

  Nothing.

  This time he scooped a handful out and dribbled it on her cheek.

  No reaction.

  He put both hands in, cupped them, and drew out the water, which he then splashed on her face. Not even her breath altered.

  He stood and looked around. Was there nothing to bring her out of this? What if she stayed like this forever?

  No, he wouldn’t even consider the possibility and bent to scoop her in his arms once again.

  Anton marched into the house, kicked the door shut behind him, and continued up the stairs. Once in the bedchamber he divested Natasha of her dress, now wet from the water, leaving her only in her undergarments then placed her in the middle of the bed where he drew the covers up to her chin. She had been vibrant and loving the night before. Now she was nothing and it tore at him to see her this way. His stomach churned and Anton feared he would be sick. If he were truthful with himself, the reason he never formulated a final plan was because deep down he knew he would never be able to truly harm her. Now she might die. And, it was his fault.

  Tears clogged this throat as panic surged. Anton sank into the chair and cradled his head in his hands. “What have I done?”

  The sound of muffled voices from the yard below drifted up. Anton stood and walked to the window. Two men on horseback rode toward the front of the house. He cursed under his breath. A young man, almost a boy, rode a chestnut mare. The older man wore large, dark glasses and a wide brimmed hat shaded his entire face. It was the oddest sight he had ever seen, but the strange attire was not his concern at the moment.

  Was his revenge over so soon? No, his retribution ended when Natasha became unconscious. Still, they could not find her here. She would not be taken from him again.

  Anton pulled the curtains so darkness blanketed the room then made his way down stairs. He reached the inside of the door as the footsteps echoed on the
front stoop. He glanced down, relieved to see that the door remained locked and positioned himself to hear what was being said.

  “This old place has been abandoned for years,” one of them said. “It doesn’t look like there has been a visitor since.”

  “We must search everywhere,” another man insisted. A knock on the door followed the comment.

  Anton waited.

  A second knock came, this time a bit louder.

  He continued to stand there and hoped the two men left.

  “I told you nobody would be here.”

  Footsteps retreated, but soon shadows fell outside the windows. Anton remained out of sight. No matter what window they looked in they would find nothing out of place and it would appear as if the residents left long ago. The sound of boots came back toward the front door.

  “It does appear to be abandoned.”

  The handle on the front door jiggled as one of them checked to see if the house was locked.

  “What about around back?” one of them asked.

  “I doubt we will find anything there, or a way in to the house, but we can try.”

  Anton’s pulse increased. Had he remembered to lock the door leading from the kitchen? He ducked and hurried through the rear of the house and hoped he was not seen through the windows. He reached the back door and slid the bolt into place.

  “Did you hear that?” one of the men asked.

  Anton cursed his stupidity. What if they decided to investigate?

  “I didn’t hear anything,” the other answered.

  Silence followed. Anton wished he knew what they were doing, or if they had seen something to give him away.

  “There is nobody here.”

  He silently blew out a relieved breath.

  “Did you check the stable?”

  “Look at that thing. It is about to crumble any second. No self-respecting gentleman would keep his horse in there.”

  Which was why Anton housed his horse farther away in a shed, not visible from the manor.