Shades of Midnight

by Linda Winstead Jones

  *

  Lucien woke with a start, unsure of what had caused him to awaken so abruptly. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Four-twenty.

  He looked down at the woman who slept so peacefully in his arms. The fire had died down long ago, but the lamp at the end table burned softly, lighting Eve’s serene face.

  Strawberry, he thought as his gaze dropped. The staid and proper woman Eve pretended to be would never order a strawberry-colored corset from a mail-order catalog. Not red, darker than true pink, the strawberry corset against Eve’s pale skin was so tempting his mouth watered.

  For two years, he had regretted his damned forgetfulness. He had never regretted his mistake more than he did at this moment. Evie was his, she would always be his. They should be lying together at this moment, man and wife, joined forever.

  “Strawberry,” a broken and distant voice said.

  Lucien’s head popped up. Alistair stood by the fireplace, leaning against the mantel with a wicked smile on his face. Lucien’s first thought was that he looked nothing like Alistair Stamper, no matter what Justina Markham and Viola said.

  This was the first time Alistair had shown himself this way, the first time he had spoken like this. It was easier, in these early morning hours just before dawn, for the spirits to manifest, for them to show themselves and speak for themselves.

  If Eve were to wake she’d see nothing. She’d hear nothing. This ghostly visit was for Lucien, and Lucien alone.

  He grabbed the afghan from the end of the sofa and covered Eve with it. He didn’t like the way Alistair looked at this partially unclothed woman who slept on in Lucien’s arms. What dreadful timing.

  “I’m here to help,” Lucien said when Eve was properly covered.

  “Viola always wore white, when she wore a corset,” Alistair said, looking at Eve as if he could see through the afghan. “Sometimes there was lace, and perhaps a pale blue ribbon, but strawberry! My oh my. How wonderfully daring. How exciting.”

  “Why haven’t you and Viola moved on?” Lucien asked, trying to turn the ghost’s attentions from Eve’s corset to the matter that had brought him to Plummerville.

  Alistair sighed and turned his ghostly gaze to Lucien. “Have you ever tried to reason with a dead woman who won’t even admit that she’s dead?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Viola won’t listen. She blames me, still…”

  “Did you kill her?” Lucien asked. He held his breath. If he’d offended Alistair with the question, the ghost might disappear and refuse to speak again.

  “No,” Alistair said without emotion. “Of course I didn’t kill her. But will she listen to me? Will she listen to reason? Of course not. Women.” His eyes fell to Eve again, and a half smile spread across his face.

  “I do love women,” he said wistfully. “I always have, since the day I turned fifteen and discovered that there was more to little girls than pigtails and giggles. Much, much more. Oh, they can be maddening, and it’s impossible to know what a female is thinking at any time, I’m sure you know that. Still, with all their faults and foibles and maddening inconsistencies, I adore them.”

  Lucien swore to himself then and there that he would not leave Eve alone in this house with Alistair again. Reputation be damned.

  “Women like Gertrude,” Lucien prodded gently, wondering if any part of his landlady’s story was true.

  The ghostly smile faded. “Ah, Gertrude. Such a beautiful woman. Hair like spun gold and a body that makes my mouth water, even now.”

  Obviously Alistair hadn’t seen Miss Gertrude in thirty years. “Did you love her?”

  Alistair’s eyebrows popped up. “Gertrude? Of course not. She was a bit of fun, that’s all. Eager and passionate and… it really isn’t my fault that she mistakenly thought an afternoon in her father’s barn meant we were going to be married.”

  No, Alistair was not a nice man. “She thought you were going to marry her.”

  “And I might have, eventually, if I hadn’t met Viola.” The spirit’s expression changed. “My life was perfect for a while, then everything went wrong. And now Viola won’t even listen to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s afraid,” Alistair said in a broken and distant voice.

  “Of what?”

  “Of me,” he whispered, the final word dying into almost nothing.

  “Should she be?” Lucien asked.

  Alistair smiled—not a happy grin, but a smile all the same—and then he faded away.

  Lucien looked at the equipment he had placed near the opening between the parlor and the foyer. The harvester was overflowing. The needle on the meter was jiggling, still. He really should lay Eve down and check on the readings, but something kept him right where he was.

  “What if I’m wrong?” he whispered as he drew Eve in close and wrapped both arms protectively around her. “What if Alistair is a killer, and I only sense his innocence because he feels no guilt?”

  A small flame in the fireplace leapt to life. A sign from one of Eve’s ghosts? Or a simple gust of wind through the chimney bringing the fire to life momentarily?

  Viola didn’t know she was dead. Alistair did. So why did he replay that lascivious and then horrific scene with her night after night after night? Lucien pondered the possibilities, as the clock on the mantel ticked. Alistair was present for most of the evening that was relived over and over again, but in truth they never saw him when Viola died. Where was he, while a knife was being thrust into his wife’s back?

  Everyone who knew the couple and the story of their deaths believed Alistair to be guilty. Maybe they were right, after all, and when Viola died each night Alistair was standing behind her with a knife in his hand.

  No, he didn’t dare leave Eve alone in this house, especially with Halloween approaching.

  *

  Eve felt herself coming awake, slowly and reluctantly. She hadn’t slept this well since she’d discovered Alistair and Viola! On this night, there had been no active dreams that exhausted her, no tossing and turning in her bed… She opened one eye. Make that on her sofa. No, make that on Lucien!

  With one arm still around her, and her head more on his chest than his shoulder, Lucien slept on, unaware that she was awake. A glance at the window proved to her that it was morning, early but not too early. Bright but not yet too bright.

  Instead of immediately jumping up, as she should, Eve lowered her head to Lucien’s chest, resting her cheek there for a moment longer. What on earth was she going to do? She loved him. If she thought for a single moment that he could love her back…

  She finally sat up slowly, tugging at her wrinkled and disordered clothing, glad that she had not been wearing her corset too tightly. Mercy, all she wanted at the moment was to get out of the thing. It was amazing that she’d slept as well as she had.

  She glanced at Lucien’s peaceful face. Well, perhaps not so amazing, after all. Had she ever felt so protected? So undeniably safe? He sheltered her with his strong arms, with his very presence. Eve’s fingers itched to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of his handsome face, to touch the strands of dark hair that touched his collar. If only he loved her…

  She hadn’t made a noise, but perhaps Lucien sensed she had awakened. His eyes fluttered open. He smiled at her, still half lost in dreams. For a moment, Eve smiled back, then she came to her senses and turned her back on him to button her dress.

  “You’d better hurry back to the boarding house, before Miss Gertrude realizes you were gone all night,” she said quickly.

  Behind her, Lucien yawned and stretched. “No,” he said as he finished his yawn.

  Properly buttoned up, Eve turned to face him. “No? I thought you were going to all this trouble to make sure my reputation wasn’t harmed? Was that just a… a lie to impress me?”

  “It wasn’t a lie, but things have changed.”

  “Nothing has changed,” she insisted as she stood. She must look a mess. Her dress was wrinkled an
d twisted, her hair fell in disarray around her face. And still, she maintained her dignity. At least, she tried. “How could things have changed while we slept?”

  “I didn’t exactly sleep the whole night,” Lucien admitted as he raked his fingers through his hair.

  Eve gasped. “How could you?”

  His smile was brilliant, and whether he knew it or not, quite charming—darn his hide. “Never fear, darling, I didn’t molest you in your sleep.” That smile faded quickly. “I spoke to Alistair.”

  She knew that Alistair was much bolder than Lucien would ever be. Especially where women were concerned. “You channeled him while I slept?”

  “No, I spoke to him.” Lucien’s eyes met hers. “Evie, I am not going to leave you alone in this house until he’s gone.”

  “That’s hardly your decision.”

  “I’m not quibbling with you about this.”

  “Good.” She nodded, glad that he knew better than to argue with her. This was, after all, her house, and she’d had no trouble with Alistair thus far.

  “I’m glad we’re agreed,” he said, closing his eyes and looking as if he intended to drift toward sleep again.

  “So am I, but you’d better hurry.” She tugged on his sleeve. “If you’re too late coming downstairs, Miss Gertrude will probably insist on checking on you. If she finds you gone…”

  “Evie,” Lucien said tiredly, “I thought we agreed that I’d stay here.”

  “We did not!”

  “Well, I’m not leaving.”

  He looked so blasted comfortable there, on her sofa. Warm and slightly tousled and very much at home. “Why do I have a feeling that it’s not me you’re afraid to leave behind, but your precious contraptions? Did Alistair threaten to touch them?”

  Lucien’s eyes, wide awake now, met hers. “No, but he did seem awfully interested in touching you.”

  She felt herself blush. “He did not.”

  “He was most intrigued by your strawberry corset. Seems Viola always wore white.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Lucien said softly, and she saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes, you did,” he interrupted. “After all, no one saw or heard him but me, and why on earth would you believe what I say?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m used to it.” He stood slowly, stretching again. Why was it that he looked adorable in the morning? It made Eve long for all the mornings she would never know. “Get yourself straightened up. Change if you must. If we hurry, I might be able to sneak into town by way of a back alley, climb through the boarding house window, make a production of leaving the rented room I did not need or want, make Miss Gertrude think I slept thirteen hours or so, and in doing so save your precious spotless reputation.”

  “I am sorry,” Eve said softly.

  “Don’t be, just… hurry.” He looked her up and down. “As delicious as you look all mussed and wrinkled and blushing, I hardly think you want to face the people of Plummerville this way. Such an appearance would play hell with your hard-won standing as a virtuous lady, Miss Abernathy.”

  He was angry, and rightly so. Hadn’t she told him just last night that she believed in him? Hadn’t she defended him and silently cursed all those who had made his life difficult? She had. Only to awaken and accuse him of lying to her about a conversation with her ghost.

  A shiver danced down her spine. Did he really think Alistair was a threat to her? And if that were true, what could Lucien do to protect her?

  Chapter 12

  Last night’s conversation with Alistair played through Lucien’s mind as he and Eve walked toward the main street of Plummerville. The man—the spirit of the man Alistair had once been—was definitely much too interested in Evie. No, he couldn’t leave her alone in that house.

  Most spirits were helpless. Powerless, sad, unable to touch the world in which they were trapped. Able to do no more than converse with a few of the living who had Lucien’s gifts, or perhaps to visit a dream or rouse a cold wind, they weren’t powerful enough to do anyone harm.

  Usually. There were exceptions, and he would not risk Evie’s life by leaving her in that house, unguarded.

  He had slowed his step to accommodate her, and still they moved along at a fast pace.

  “Miss Gertrude wasn’t lying,” he said.

  “What?”

  “About her and Alistair. He admitted to a relationship, when he appeared to me last night. I don’t think there was ever an actual betrothal, but he did compromise her and… perhaps he allowed her to think whatever she wanted to think, in order to…” He couldn’t say it. “He was not a nice man.”

  “No one claims he was.”

  At least she no longer accused him of fabricating the early morning visit.

  She sighed, as if she were disgusted. “If he treated Miss Gertrude that way, there were surely others. And if that’s true, there might be any number of women in town who would want Alistair and Viola both dead, women we will never know about.”

  “I imagine that’s true.”

  “So how will we ever know what happened?”

  “We might not.”

  Eve took a deep breath of cool morning air. “I don’t accept that.”

  “You may have no choice.”

  Not sending Alistair and Viola on would be a good excuse to pick Eve up and carry her out of that house. He could declare that she was not safe there, and never would be, and drag her with him to another house, another job. Sooner or later she’d realize that they belonged together and she’d stop fighting him.

  The only problem with that was, he could not and would not purposely leave two spirits trapped, as Viola and Alistair were. He couldn’t live with himself if he allowed them to continue in this nightmare. It didn’t matter that they had both made horrible mistakes, that Alistair was not a nice person and Viola had broken her marriage vows. He couldn’t turn his back on them.

  Not even for Evie.

  *

  It would be difficult to explain away a third trip to the general store this week, so Eve gravitated toward the sole dress shop in town. She had admired the creations in the window, on occasion, but she hadn’t made a purchase from Laverne’s Dress Shop. She didn’t need anything. She had more dresses than she needed, truth be told. The inheritance from her father, well invested, kept her from worrying about matters like where her next dress—or corset—was coming from.

  Her fancy corsets were all ordered from a mail-order catalog. They were her only frivolous purchases, her only weakness. Other than that, she cared little about her clothes. Her dresses should be comfortable and sturdy. Eve Abernathy didn’t want to call attention to herself by decking herself out in frills and laces.

  But she did admire the brightly colored silks and the fancy hats that might suit a more frivolous woman. Daisy bought all her dresses here, and Daisy had a fabulous wardrobe of beautiful clothes she adored.

  “Can I help you find anything?” Laverne Taggert asked as Eve ran her fingers along a display of particularly bright ribbons.

  “No, I’m just browsing.”

  Laverne was a young widow, not yet forty and still handsome, in a plumpish kind of way. She was a quiet woman, downright shy, but Eve had seen her in church and heard Daisy sing her praises as a seamstress.

  “If you need anything…” Mrs. Taggert looked over Eve’s rust-colored day dress without comment, unless one counted the disapproving lift of an eyebrow. “Just let me know.”

  “Thank you.” Eve looked over the ribbons, and then moved on to a mountain of fabrics, bolts stacked high. There wasn’t a drab brown or green or rust in the bunch.

  Eve’s fingers barely touched the sides of the tightly wrapped bolts as she studied each one. Daisy would love some of these colors, so bright and beautiful. This one looked like spring, this one… summer. Her fingers stopped on a muted gold. If she did decide
to have a new dress made for herself, perhaps…

  “No!” Mrs. Taggert said, appearing at Eve’s side with a concerned expression on her face.

  Eve’s hand snapped back away from the fabric, as if she’d been scolded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch.”

  “You can touch all you want. It’s just that the gold isn’t a good color for you,” the dressmaker added.

  “Oh,” Eve replied simply, suddenly feeling inadequate as a woman since she had no idea what she should wear. She always chose fabrics and colors that were tame. Unobtrusive. Invisible. Clothes that would help her to fade into the background.

  “Maybe… if I were to have a new dress made…” She lifted her hand and her fingers trailed below the gold, to a nice emerald green. “Green to match my eyes?”

  Eve glanced to the side to see Mrs. Taggert shake her head. “No.” The widow barely touched an elegant blue silk. “Blue, so the green of your eyes stands out nicely. Perhaps this paler green linen, for spring. It will compliment your eyes without fighting with them. Oh, and this crushed strawberry silk…”

  Eve almost jumped out of her skin. Her heart definitely skipped a beat. “Strawberry?”

  “A new color that would be wonderful with your complexion.”

  Eve stiffened her spine. “They’re all lovely fabrics, but I really have no need for anything so…” Frivolous. Extravagant. Unnecessary. “Beautiful,” she finished with a sigh.

  “Before we continue, you must call me Laverne,” the seamstress said seriously. “We should be friends.”

  “Of course. And I’m Eve.” Yet another friend in Plummerville. It really was becoming home.

  “I started to introduce myself to you several times,” the dressmaker said, “but something always interfered. My own bashfulness, on occasion,” she confided. “I know a businesswoman should be more forceful when it comes to making the acquaintance of newcomers, but I’m just not very good at pushing myself at people.”

  Eve smiled. “Neither am I, to be honest. But it is so nice to get acquainted with you now. I should have dropped by your shop sooner, but I’m afraid I don’t need new clothes. Everything I have is perfectly serviceable.”