A Magical Christmas Present

by Eugenia Riley

  Taking one last, near-anguished look at the lovely, ethereal creature, Jason left. He headed back down the steps, feeling bemused and shaken by his “ghost tour.”

  When he turned back to look at the town house, all the lights were extinguished, and he could see only darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning as he ate breakfast in his hotel room, Jason found himself endlessly reliving the moments he had spent on the “ghost tour” last night. It had undoubtedly been the strangest ten minutes of his entire life—and yet, on another level, the most compelling. His tour guide had in every way personified an actual ghost; indeed, when she had whispered, “I died on this staircase…”, Jason had felt hard-pressed not to believe her.

  And why had she been so careful never to let him venture too close to her, or to touch her? Her ethereal, elusive qualities fascinated him. Even though logic still argued that she had only been playing a role, he knew that he wanted to see Annie Simmons again, to get to know her better. He couldn’t deny that something had sprung to life inside him during the brief moments they had shared. On some uncanny level, she seemed both to know and to understand him, to reach out to the emptiness in his heart and soul. Already he felt a deep bond with her.

  Jason picked up the phone and called his editor in the States. He reached Bill Turner at home.

  “Jason. How is it going?” Bill muttered, stifling a yawn.

  “Okay. I’m working on the feature on the West End Candlelight Tours right now.”

  “Will you get the piece in by the deadline?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Bill chuckled. “What about the photos? Is Steve McCurdy on top of them?”

  Jason groaned. “I’m afraid Steve has a touch of the flu.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Don’t despair. The tours are running for two more nights, and Steve has promised me he will play catchup either tonight or tomorrow night.”

  “I love a photo finish,” Bill quipped. “Listen, the spread is going to run in just over two weeks—”

  “We’ll get it in,” Jason reiterated. He cleared his throat. “I do have a question for you, Bill.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the Simmons Hotel? An invitation from them was included with the ones you gave me.”

  “Let me grab my briefcase and see if I can put my hands on the list of people and establishments we’ve been in contact with.”

  Jason waited, then heard Bill pick up the phone again and rustle through some papers.

  After a moment, Bill said, “You know, this is odd. I don’t see the Simmons Hotel on the list of homes and inns you are to cover.”

  Jason was mystified. “But I’ve got the invitation right here in my hand.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t pick it up somewhere else?”

  “Definitely not. It was in the envelope with the other info you gave me.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Bill muttered. “Maybe an invitation was sent, but the hotel wasn’t included on the master list I was given. Tell you what—why don’t you contact this Mrs. Jessica Fitzhugh? She’s the chairman of the tours, and is serving as our London liaison.”

  Jason flipped through some of the papers Bill had given him. “Oh, yeah. Her number is right here with the other materials. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “And you say you’re on top of things?” Bill asked skeptically.

  “You’ll get your article on time,” Jason said, and the two men hung up.

  “Mrs. Fitzhugh?” Jason asked.

  “Speaking,” replied the elderly sounding, feminine voice at the other end of the line. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Jason Burke, the reporter who is covering the West End Candlelight Tours for the Manhattan Chronicle.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Burke,” the woman said eagerly. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you. Indeed, we were hoping that you would stop by our home last night.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Jason muttered. “The Fitzhugh home in Mayfair is featured on the tour.”

  “You should have been here,” Mrs. Fitzhugh related excitedly. “We had a crowd of hundreds, and carolers came by from our parish church. We couldn’t have planned it any better.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Jason commented without enthusiasm. “I’ll be sure to get by your home tonight. In the meantime, I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you tell me anything about the Simmons Hotel? An invitation for a tour of the inn was included in the package you sent my editor.”

  “Why, forevermore!” gasped Mrs. Fitzhugh. “I never mailed your editor any such invitation! And if that isn’t the oddest thing I’ve ever heard of!”

  “What do you mean, odd?” Jason asked.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh laughed. “Why, the Simmons Hotel is not included in the West End tours. Indeed, during the forty years I’ve been chairman, the hotel has never been included in the tours.”

  A chill swept over Jason. “Then how can you explain my having the invitation?”

  “I have no idea. A joke, perhaps?”

  “If so, not a very funny one,” Jason replied. Frowning to himself, he added, “But you do seem familiar with the hotel.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “However, you must be aware that there no longer is a Simmons Hotel as such—indeed, there hasn’t been one for over fifty years.”

  Now Jason had to protest. “There, you are wrong. You see, I toured the hotel last night. The tour was led—”

  “Yes?”

  Reluctantly, Jason admitted, “By a young woman posing as a ghost.”

  He heard Mrs. Fitzhugh laugh. “Oh, Mr. Burke! Now you are pulling my leg!”

  “Not at all,” Jason argued. Feeling frustrated, he added, “What can you tell me about the hotel?”

  “Well, as I recall, the Simmons was established in the nineteenth century. If memory serves, it closed down in the early 1940s, and thereafter was split up into flats or something. I believe it is now vacant and boarded up—if it hasn’t been razed.”

  “But that makes no sense,” Jason put in vehemently. “I tell you, I was there last night.”

  “Perhaps you were at a different address, and only thought you were there.”

  Jason frowned. “Do you know of any way I can find out additional information on this hotel?”

  “Ah, yes. I believe the Simmons is included in a book on historic inns of the West End. You might ask for it at the library.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, Mr. Burke?”

  “Yes?”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh paused for a moment, then related awkwardly, “I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but the Simmons Hotel has always been rumored to be haunted.”

  The Simmons Hotel has always been rumored to be haunted.

  That very statement was still haunting Jason Burke an hour later as he maneuvered his small car through the maze of streets in Belgravia. Navigating was somewhat easier by the light of day, and in due course, Jason managed to find his way back to Belgrave Lane—and to the town house he had toured last night.

  What he saw astounded him. The candlelit inn was gone. In its place stood a crumbling edifice with soot-blackened brick, sagging roof, and boarded-up windows!

  Jason left his car and strode onto the walkway, staring in disbelief at the derelict structure. The building standing before him had obviously been closed down for some time now—there was even graffiti decorating the graying boards.

  Nothing made sense! Nothing made sense at all! There were no signs of life around the old edifice; in front of it, a sign proclaimed that the structure would shortly be renovated into an office building.

  Feeling more bemused than ever, Jason got into his car and drove off. What on earth had happened to him last night? Had he gotten lost? Had someone truly played a joke on him? Had he been hallucinating? Or had his tour been led by an actual ghost?

  Jason visited the renowned Guildhall Libra
ry not far from the London financial center. The librarian was very helpful, showing Jason to a table and bringing him the requested book on historic inns of the West End.

  For a moment, he felt too unnerved to open the volume.

  Five minutes later, Jason was staring at a faded daguerreotype of Annie Simmons and her father, both of whom were standing before the staircase at the Simmons Hotel in the year 1850.

  Jason could not stop trembling. For he was staring at the very ghost who had guided his tour last night!

  To his deepening sense of amazement and mystification, the other details of the article confirmed just what Annie Simmons and Mrs. Fitzhugh had already told Jason—that the inn had known its heyday in the 1850s, that Annie Simmons had died there due to a tragic accident late in 1852, and that, for generations afterward, Annie’s spirit had been rumored to haunt the hotel.

  Jason buried his face in his hands and groaned. What was happening to him? Had he lost his mind? Was the woman he had met last night a descendant of Annie Simmons? But how could that be if Annie Simmons had died young and unmarried?

  He was falling in love with a ghost!

  That night as Jason drove his car through the zigzagging streets of Belgravia, he was still questioning his own sanity. Since the Candlelight Tours were to continue for two more nights, he had again donned his formal attire and had gone searching for the Simmons Hotel and Annie Simmons. He seemed compelled by forces too powerful and complex to understand.

  Again, he got lost in the fog, in the maze of streets. He was growing intensely frustrated when some inner voice told him that perhaps he should give up his search for now and go visit the other homes on the tour. He suddenly felt a compelling need to conclude his business here in London.

  Thus, Jason drove out of Belgravia and made the rounds of half a dozen homes on the tours, visiting a charming 18th century house in Queen Anne’s Gate, a stunning Adamesque town house on Portland Square, a magnificent estate overlooking Regent’s Park. Jason was warmly received at each home and, despite his impatience to locate the Simmons Hotel again, he enjoyed the lavish decorations and costumes, the wassail and hymn singing, much more than he would have thought. He visited the Fitzhugh home in Mayfair and at last met the charming Jessica Fitzhugh. When the elderly woman asked Jason if he had ever found the Simmons Hotel, he merely smiled enigmatically and said that perhaps he had gotten lost.

  He did not finish with the tours until well past midnight, and when he returned to his hotel, he felt impelled to write the articles. He pulled out his laptop computer and worked feverishly throughout the night, completing all four features and then typing in his byline, “Finias Fogg.” At dawn, he tumbled into bed and caught a few hours of sleep. At noon, he called Steve McCurdy and checked on how the photo shoot was coming along. Afterward, he went out and mailed the floppy disk with the articles to his editor in the States. He also mailed his parents a Christmas card, sending them his love.

  That night, again in black tie, Jason drove back to Belgravia and circled through the darkened streets. A feeling of heightened tension gripped him as he realized that tonight would likely be his last opportunity to find the Simmons Hotel and Annie Simmons.

  But this time, he found #10 Belgrave Lane much more easily than he would have thought—indeed, the structure appeared lit up like a beacon. “My God!” he cried as he braked his car to a halt.

  Jason shut off the ignition and all but bolted out of his car. He stared in amazement at a far different Simmons Hotel that loomed before him tonight. Gone were the boards, the sagging structure he had seen yesterday. The Greek Revival facade now seemed perfect in every detail, and the windows sparkled like a Christmas tree! Indeed, the spirit of Yule was evident tonight in the garlands gracing the front steps and the freshly cut wreath on the door.

  Jason bounded up the steps. He didn’t know where he was headed, but he did know that he wanted with all his heart to be right here on this stoop!

  He knocked, and this time—to his astonishment and delight—his knock was answered by a far different Annie Simmons, who swung open the door and regarded him with a friendly smile.

  This woman, who so strikingly resembled his ghostly guide from two nights ago, was very much alive! Jason sensed that at once. She was dressed in a bright-red velvet gown, her cheeks were bright, and her eyes gleamed with merriment. Beyond her, the hallway was lavishly carpeted and furnished, as well as decorated in the spirit of Yule. He could hear the sounds of happy voices and soft music coming from the parlor. He could even smell the intoxicating aromas of Christmas—the spice of wassail, the crisp scents of cedar and pine. Indeed, he could see the “kissing bunch” she had mentioned two nights ago—a masterpiece of holly and mistletoe, pinecones and lit candles, hanging directly above her head.

  Jason was tempted to pull this lovely vision into his arms and kiss her!

  But she made the first move, reaching out to take his hand. Her flesh was warm and electric on his, and he felt suddenly as if he were hovering on the brink of some magical discovery.

  “Hello, miss,” he murmured.

  “Good evening, sir,” she murmured back. “You must be our expected guest from America. Won’t you come in out of the cold and join us?”

  Before Jason could think of a response, she tugged on his hand and pulled him through the portal. A sense of unreality swamped him, and he suddenly remembered the verse, “Through this portal, take your leave…”

  For a moment, Jason felt genuinely disoriented, almost frightened. “Where am I?” he asked his hostess as she tugged him toward the parlor. “What is going on here?”

  Her lyrical voice somehow soothed his fears. “Don’t worry, sir. You are where you belong now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Father, we have a guest,” said Annie Simmons.

  After taking Jason’s overcoat, Annie led him into the drawing room. Jason could only glance about him in awe, and had to struggle not to gape at the astounding tableau unfolding before him.

  Immediately, he sensed that this was hardly a scene enacted from the past, such as he had witnessed at several London homes last night. Instead, he was gripped by the intense, eerie feeling that he had stepped right into an actual Victorian parlor!

  The same crystal chandelier he had spotted two nights ago gleamed overhead, casting about warm sprays of light. A vivid royal-blue-and-rose oriental rug covered the floor, and mauve-colored flocked wallpaper graced the walls. The furniture was fashioned of elegant carved rosewood, with silk damask coverings. Behind handsome brass andirons, a fire blazed in the grate. Everywhere were Christmas decorations, from the holly festooning the mantel to the Nativity scene on the tea table, to the Christmas tree in the front window, which gleamed with small lit candles, and was gaily decorated with everything from candied fruits, toys, and clocks, to sugarplums, doll furniture, and pieces of jewelry.

  And the people! There seemed to be at least a dozen guests present, gaily visiting in the parlor—gentlemen in black tailcoats, matching trousers, ruffled shirts, and elaborate silk neckwear, ladies in sweeping floor-length gowns similar to Annie’s. At the beautifully carved cabinet grand piano, an elderly woman was playing the sweet strains of “The Holly and the Ivy.”

  What on earth had happened to him? Jason wondered. He had the uncanny feeling that he had somehow arrived at the Simmons Hotel during its heyday—and that explanation could only make sense if he had somehow traveled through time! Such a possibility seemed preposterous.

  Yet how else could he explain the resurrection of the hotel from the ramshackle structure he’d seen yesterday to the magnificent edifice in which he now stood? And how could he account for the transformation of Annie Simmons from the ghost who had mesmerized him two nights ago to the enchanting, beautiful, very much alive creature who now stood next to him?

  A balding man with muttonchop whiskers now strode up to join them, glancing rather perplexedly at Jason. “Annie, who have we here?” he asked the woman.

  �
�Father, our visitor from America has arrived,” she explained.

  “Ah, yes. We hadn’t expected you for a few more days, sir.” The man extended his hand toward Jason. “I am Oscar Simmons, proprietor of this inn. I see that you’ve already met my daughter.”

  Jason smiled at Annie. “Yes, I have.”

  As the two men shook hands, Oscar Simmons regarded Jason quizzically. “Then you are Finias Fogg, sir?”

  “Finias Fogg?” Jason was amazed. “You mean the founder of the Manhattan Chronicle?”

  “Why, yes. Mr. Fogg recently wrote us reserving a room for his stay in London.” Scratching his jaw, Oscar Simmons appeared perplexed. “Are saying you saying you are not Mr. Fogg?”

  “I’m afraid we have a misunderstanding here,” Jason explained awkwardly. “I am definitely not Finias Fogg—except perhaps in a whimsical sense.” As, father and daughter exchanged bemused glances, he quickly added, “However, I suppose I am a representative of Mr. Fogg, since I do write for the Manhattan Chronicle. My name is Jason Burke.”

  “Ah, Mr. Burke,” Simmons murmured.

  “Then you have come to London in Mr. Fogg’s stead?” Annie suggested with a puzzled smile.

  Jason had to restrain a chuckle. “Perhaps in a manner of speaking, I have.”

  “And what is the purpose of your stay in our city, Mr. Burke?” Oscar Simmons asked.

  Jason decided the truth might best suffice. “Actually, I am here gathering information to write a series of articles on Christmas traditions in Great Britain.”

  “Oh, how fascinating!” Annie cried with an expression of delight.

  “Indeed,” her father concurred. “As it happens, we are hosting a bit of a Yule gathering here tonight for our guests and a few friends. Won’t you join us, Mr. Burke?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he replied hesitantly.

  “Nonsense,” Annie said. “This gathering is for folks just like you. And you must stay here the night, as well.”