Christmas Spirit

by Amy Corwin

  When he gripped the banister of the main staircase, he noticed a smear of blood across his hand. Too tired to be horrified, he wiped it off on his dark trousers and descended. Halfway down, he halted.

  Three women stood in the center of the hallway, their cloaks stiff and glittering with melting ice. Swirls of powdery snow blew across the flagstone floor.

  While he watched, one of them stumbled back to the open door. She pushed it with both hands as if barely able to manage its weight. Her cloak billowed out behind her as a last gust battered the edge of the door before she forced it shut.

  They couldn’t be here. Not now, not under these conditions.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice more harsh than he intended.

  The ladies spun. They stared up at him, their faces as pale as carved ice. One lady, the older one, placed a hand on the arm of the woman next to her. Nonetheless, despite the restraining hold, the younger one stepped forward. Her rounded chin rose.

  “We’re seeking shelter… the weather—”

  “You can’t stay here,” he cut her off. He descended the stairs and crossed the wide hallway.

  “We must.” Water dripped off her cloak and pooled around her feet.

  “You must not,” he insisted, feeling churlish. But it couldn’t be helped. They’d be safer out in the storm than in this damnable house. A man had been murdered. They couldn’t stay, but the women stared at him, huddled together like a trio of sheep facing a bristling wolf. “You must leave. Get back into your carriage. You’re not far from the village. There is an inn there. You’ll be more comfortable in a room there than here.”

  A creak on the stairs stopped him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw his father’s cherubic face hanging over the balustrade.

  “Giles,” his father said. Mr. Reginald Danby, Lord Wolverton, had apparently grown tired of his charge to watch over the dead man. His father’s eyes lit with curiosity when he noticed the newcomers. “Who are these ladies?”

  “I don’t know. They were just leaving.”

  “We’re not leaving!” the young lady exclaimed with desperate exasperation. The fine bones of her face gave her a porcelain delicacy that made him feel even more heartless. Her mouth was framed with white as if the very skin was frozen. “We can’t go. We’ve walked too far, already. Our carriage broke a wheel. We’re not going anywhere, not tonight. If we must, we’ll sleep in the stable with our horses.”

  “Giles!” his father chided him. “Don’t be boorish. Show the ladies into the drawing room—”

  “The drawing room!” Giles exclaimed, appalled. The body was in the drawing room. “They can’t… you know….”

  His father had the grace to flush with embarrassment. “No, I suppose not. But one of the rooms down here perhaps—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” the young lady said, sounding anything but apologetic. She held her arm around the older woman, who leaned on her heavily. “My mother is suffering from the cold. I apologize for our intrusion….”

  The woman behind the pair, who appeared to be a maid given her plain and well-worn clothing, moved forward protectively.

  “This is not my house,” Giles replied, gripping the railing.

  She stared at him with a look of frustration. “I beg your pardon?”

  Giles pinched the bridge of his nose, striving for coherent thought. “You don’t understand.”

  “Clearly, not,” she said.

  “My son—” His father joined them in the hallway, rubbing his hands. He stared at the ladies with increasing fascination, as if he had never seen women before.

  “Father….” Giles cut him off, shaking his head in warning.

  “This is your house, then?” the young lady asked Lord Wolverton.

  “No,” his father said. “And you’ve caught us in a bit of a, well….” He glanced at Giles and shrugged.

  The ladies wavered, clearly reaching the limit of their strength. They stared at him, unutterably miserable. Their cloaks had finally thawed and hung damply off their shoulders, dripping into the large puddle at the feet. The pool ran across the flagstones in a thin stream, heading for the stairs in tiny ripples.

  “May we sit down?” the young lady asked. “Anywhere? The stables, if necessary.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” He could put them in one of the rooms down here. They’d be safe for a short time, wouldn’t they? “But just for an hour. Until you’re warm. We’ll give you something hot to eat and drink to sustain you on the trip to the village. In the meantime, I’ll have my own carriage brought round.”

  “Absolutely not.” The older woman raised her head. Deep, purplish circles surrounded her blue eyes, emphasizing her chilled weariness. Her thin lips compressed into a line as if she bit back a more scathing remark.

  Again, he felt a stab of shame at his insistence that they leave. But it was for their safety.

  “No one can venture out tonight,” the young lady added. “Look outside if you don’t believe us.”

  “I understand. However,” Giles caught his father’s gaze, “you’ve arrived at a difficult time—”

  “Clearly,” the older woman said.

  “You see, our host is, well, he’s no longer with us,” his father explained.

  The young woman eyed him. “He abandoned his guests? On a night like this?”

  “Not voluntarily.”

  “What my father is endeavoring to say is that our host is dead. And that is why you can’t stay.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” the older woman murmured in a fading voice. “What a terrible tragedy, especially at this season.”

  “He was murdered,” Giles added, by way of justifying his boorish behavior. He felt a flicker of satisfaction when the ladies stared at him in terror.

  His father hurriedly stepped forward, waving his hands as if to brush Giles’s words away. “It may have been an accident.”

  “Accident!” Giles stared at him.

  His father’s florid cheeks grew rosier still. “Perhaps his valet was shaving him and slipped.”

  “In the drawing room?”

  “Or he was examining some sharp implement and fell—”

  “And the weapon vanished?” Giles shook his head. He’d examined the room, searching for a reasonable explanation. There wasn’t one. “We must face facts. He was murdered.”

  “How is that possible? It’ll be Christmas in five days!” the young lady exclaimed, as if that holiday guaranteed peace and love in the hearts of all men.

  “Well,” his father continued with a determined air. “It might have been the ghost. “He did try to warn us.”

  “Ghost!” the three women exclaimed in unison. The maid stepped back and glanced over her shoulder.

  His father nodded. “He’d been complaining of one. Mr. Lane, that is. Ever since he inherited the house. And as you well know, this is the season when spirits roam. Long, cold nights and bitter storms…. Just like tonight, in fact!”

  “Father!” Giles said, trying to stop his father. He was obviously winding up his favorite toy, speculation about the unseen world. And his comments only added to the terror tightening the women’s faces. “I doubt it was a ghost—” He stopped abruptly when he noticed the young woman’s frightened eyes fixed on his hand.

  She gazed from his hand to the smear of blood on the side of his trousers, as if she could see the stains on the dark wool. Determined intelligence hardened the woman’s gaze. But when she caught his glance she blushed and looked away.

  “I—” She coughed. “I’m sorry, but we must rest. If there’s a room with a fire we may use, I’d appreciate it.”

  “But, a ghost….” The older woman peered into the dark doorway on her left.

  “We’ll stay together. There’s nothing to fear, Mother.”

  “Of course,” his father said in a determinedly hearty voice. “And surely the ghost—if ghost it was—is satisfied. Having already taken his victim—”

  “Father! I apologize
, and I beg your pardon.” He bowed stiffly and changed the subject. “I should introduce my father and myself. My father is Lord Wolverton. I am Mr. Giles Danby.” He gestured at the surrounding hallway. “And this is the home of the unfortunate Mr. Eric Lane.”

  “My mother is Lady Weston. I’m Miss Evelynola Tomlin,” the young lady said with a slight curtsey. “I regret putting you to any inconvenience.”

  “And I apologize for my behavior. I was only concerned for your safety. I—we—found Mr. Lane not more than ten minutes before you arrived.”

  “I understand,” Miss Tomlin said in tones as cool as the wind.

  It was clear that her understanding included casting him in the role of murderer. But if her fear kept the women from wandering around the manor and becoming the next victims, then he was pleased to be mistaken for a villain.

  “Good, then it’s settled.” His father rubbed his hands, again. “Allow me to escort you to the… uh… library. I believe that is on this floor. In the meantime, my son will order rooms—”

  “One room, if you don’t mind.” Lady Weston’s nervous glance darted around the dimly lit hallway as she clutched her daughter’s arm in a firmer grip.

  “Mother—”

  “We can comfortably occupy a single room,” Lady Weston repeated, her voice strengthening. “After all, it is only for one night. We’re on our way to my cousins’ in Hythe for the Christmas season. We meant to arrive there tonight. However, as my daughter indicated, that proved impossible.”

  Giles nodded. He only had to keep them alive for a single night. By tomorrow they’d be gone, and he could hand over the tragedy upstairs to the local constable.

  Then he caught his father’s avid gaze and added one more task. He needed to convince his father there was no deadly apparition to investigate so they could escape this nightmare house, as well.

  He thought regretfully about his own bed at the Danby town house in London and wished he’d never left it.

  Chapter Three

  Despite her damp skirts and the chill that had settled into her bones, Eve had an intense desire to escape the haunted manor. She wished they could run back to the carriage and burrow inside, swathed in traveling carpet. Anything was preferable to a long night in this dreadful place.

  The wind howled outside, rattling the windows until they sounded like frozen teeth chattering. Her mother sagged against her. Eve hugged her and pressed her cheek against her mother’s dripping hair.

  Unfortunately, Eve had only herself to blame. She’d led them here. If they perished because of her idiocy, well, she’d take the blame. She glanced at the stairway, her eyes drawn to the dark landing. It loomed above them like the hungry mouth of a cave.

  Who knew what—or who—walked the mildewed hallways in this large, drafty house?

  She wasn’t particularly superstitious, but the thought of spending the night in the same house as a murdered man was unbearable.

  However, she was more inclined to believe that Mr. Danby was responsible instead of a ghost. Remembering the dangerous look in his dark eyes and the blood on his hands, she shivered. The rusty stains looked like blood. And his broad shoulders spoke of his strength. He’d have no difficulty murdering a man if he wished.

  But her apprehensions didn’t prevent her from noticing his sheer presence or his irritation at their presence. He simultaneously frightened and attracted her, despite her normally sensible, if not prosaic, attitude.

  However, his reluctance to allow them the simply courtesy of a seat by the fire did not speak well of his character.

  Her mother raised a hand to pat the cap covering her damp curls. Eve followed the direction of her gaze and noticed a hallway mirror. The Tomlin ladies were not at their best. In fact, they looked like disheveled mice, complete with red noses and pink-rimmed eyes.

  Their reflections provided another, less flattering reason for Mr. Danby’s rudeness.

  Eve’s hand fluttered to her hair. Wet tendrils straggled over her forehead and hung in front of her frozen ears. Vanity warred with exhaustion until an uncontrollable shiver sent her wet skirts slapping against her skin. She sighed, finding it hard to care if they were murdered as long as the deed was done in front of a roaring fire.

  Mr. Danby rang for a maid. When the girl arrived, she curtsied and dutifully motioned to Sarah.

  Sarah cast an anguished, panicked glance at Eve. “Miss?”

  “It’s all right.” Eve smiled, striving to show courage and fortitude despite her certitude that she had none left to grant to anyone, including herself. “We’ll join you in a few minutes, Sarah.” She shrugged out of her sodden cloak and handed it to her maid. Then she helped her mother divest herself of her outer garment.

  The two of them trembled as a chilly draft swept across the flagstones. The heavy, wet cloaks had not been much protection against the cold, but she missed the layer. Eve put her arm around her mother’s still-slim waist, thankful for the warmth.

  “Ladies,” Mr. Danby waved them forward.

  His father trotted ahead of them. After trying two doors, apparently at random, he finally flung open a heavy double-door. He turned to smile at them, waving them into a room.

  Eve and her mother hesitated on the threshold while Mr. Danby brushed past them with his lamp. As he lit a few candles, his father knelt on the flagstone apron in front of a massive brick fireplace.

  “Come in, ladies. Pray be seated. I shan’t be a moment.” Lord Wolverton struggled unsuccessfully to light the untidy stack of logs.

  Eve and her mother looked around, clinging to each other. The library was no more welcoming than Mr. Danby. The walls were covered with shelves of leather-bound books that seemed to absorb every spark of light in the room. Shadows leapt and danced with the flickering candlelight, obscuring the top reaches of the bookcases.

  When she looked around, Eve couldn’t see the corners of the room. Darkness filled the spaces beyond the glow of the lamps. The memory of the fleeting figure gliding between the trees outside arose unbidden.

  Had she seen the ghost, fleeing after the murder? Had it seen them? Marked them as its next victims?

  Her eyes burned as she strained to see what lurked in the shadows pooling around them. Drafts whispered through the curtains, moving the heavy drapes fitfully in the blackness.

  “Allow me.” Mr. Danby gently pulled his father away from the smoking wood stacked in the fireplace. He soon had the fire crackling within a small pile of tinder. As it brightened, he leaned forward and gently blew, adding larger sticks as the flames grew.

  He sat back on his heels and glanced over his shoulder at them. When he saw them standing together near the door, he waved at a pair of Queen Anne wing chairs arranged near the hearth.

  “Please, sit.”

  “Thank you,” her mother said.

  Despite his invitation, Eve sensed his impatience. He wanted them to leave. Perversely, the ruder and more unwelcoming he grew, the more attractive she found him. She sat and held her hands to the fire. The light flickered between her fingers, turning them to a translucent red and reminding her unpleasantly of the stains on Mr. Danby’s hands.

  She drew back and folded her hands in her lap, wishing Sarah would hurry. The growing warmth had awakened the feeling in her limbs and feet and they throbbed. When her mother chafed her slender fingers, Eve reached over and pressed her hands between her palms, hoping to share what little warmth she’d regained.

  Chapter Four

  Although he tried not to appear overly curious about the women, Giles couldn’t completely ignore them. Lady Weston was beautiful despite her age, which appeared to be somewhere in the early forties.

  Miss Tomlin was lovelier still. Her expressive brown eyes were huge, surrounded by spiky, damp lashes and a few dry tendrils of hair showed it to be a pale blond color. The combination was striking. It lent her face a warmth that her mother’s blue eyes and silvery hair lacked.

  If he weren’t preoccupied with what lay upstairs, he migh
t have found her attractive.

  He shook himself and glanced back at the fire. The women would be gone tomorrow. In the meantime, they were naught but an intrusion and a responsibility. An hour ago, he hadn’t been sure he could protect his father well enough to survive the night. Now he had these travelers to safeguard within the cold stone walls of Folkestone Manor.

  A maid entered the room, carrying a wooden tray with a steaming metal pitcher and several pewter goblets. “Beg pardon, sir. I’ve brung a pitcher of hot buttered rum.”

  “Thank you,” Giles said, taking the tray. “Is there any soup left?”

  “Yes, sir.” She curtsied. “I’ll fetch it, along with a few of them buns left from supper.”

  “You are visitors here?” Lady Weston asked after the maid slipped out of the room. She took a goblet and pressed her hands around it, soaking in the warmth before taking a small sip.

  “Yes. We thought to stay for the holidays….” Giles frowned and gazed into the fire, his mind whirring like a clockwork toy.

  What had happened this evening? He didn’t believe the ghost of a murdered smuggler had killed Eric Lane. But at the moment, there didn’t seem to be a better explanation. Who, or what else, could walk through a locked door?

  “Father,” he leaned forward to whisper, “go upstairs. Lock the master bedroom. Then bring the key to me.” He glanced at the ladies. They huddled in their chairs, taking slow sips of their rum. A bit of color had returned to Miss Tomlin’s cheeks, making her eyes deeper and more softly brown.

  “Why?” his father asked. “No one will—”

  “Humor me.” Giles sighed with exasperation, although a fond smile tugged at his mouth. “We don’t want to make it too easy for the… er… ghost, now do we?”

  “But—”

  “Please, Father. Just lock the door. Then bring me the key.”

  His father cast such a longing glance in Lady Weston’s direction that Giles stepped between the two of them. Lord Wolverton left.