Hosts to Ghosts Box Set

by Lynne Connolly

  “In the early seventeenth century, the Heatheringtons consisted of three brothers, one only a child, the other two adults. Vernon, the eldest at thirty-four was the third earl, and his brother, Nathaniel, was two years younger. Nathaniel held a seat in the House of Commons and Vernon lived the life of luxury at Court.” She felt, rather than heard, Nathaniel’s mirthless laugh. “However, Nathaniel became fired by the new thinking in Parliament, and he left the family home and rejected his heritage, becoming a Roundhead.” She saw his wince. “Vernon did his best to support the King in the coming conflict, but when it became obvious they would lose, Nathaniel came home, claiming the estate for Parliament. The brothers fought, and Nathaniel killed Vernon.”

  She turned away, overwhelmed by the grief filling the gallery, the feeling of desolation sinking into her soul. At the same time, both mediums sprang forward to stand before the camera. The eldest, today wearing a flowery dress that seemed incongruous in this terrible place, lifted her hands and her head, her eyes half closed as she absorbed the energy. Her colleague spoke to the camera, her face serious, but tilted just at the right angle for the lights. “We can feel an energy. Doris is communing with the spirits, and I am trying to contact them.” She closed her eyes, then blinked them wide open. “Nathaniel is here.” Sylvie looked up, straight into his startled eyes. He had come closer and now stood just behind the camera. “Speak, spirit!”

  There was a fraught silence, then a thump. Half the crew shrieked in shock. Jo smiled. “Speak to us, if you can!”

  Another silence, and then another thump.

  Nathaniel laughed. The sound made them all jerk and look at him as though he was demented. He returned the look. “You’re all mad! That was a cleaner, probably in the bedrooms upstairs. Nothing else.”

  The feeling had gone now, and only Sylvie knew where it had come from.

  The producer heaved a great sigh. “From the top, please. We’ll keep the section up to Lord—Nev’s interruption.”

  “Sorry,” Nathaniel muttered, but he was smiling.

  Sylvie started again but when she got to her previous place, nothing happened and she carried on. “Nathaniel was fully committed to the Parliamentary cause. If Cromwell had got hold of the Abbey, he would have destroyed it, as he had so many before.” She glanced at Nathaniel. His eyes now held nothing but cynicism, but as she watched, his expression softened, and he smiled at her.

  It doesn’t matter what people think any more. It’s gone.

  “Nathaniel killed his brother, Vernon, in a duel, held in the courtyard outside, but he received injuries that were to kill him at Christmas.” That was why Nathaniel could take corporeal form at Christmas. That was when he had died. “The remaining brother stayed here, and after the Restoration of King Charles II, he worked hard to recover the family’s position. As you can see, he succeeded beautifully.”

  The warmth was for his brother, not for her, Sylvie firmly told herself.

  No, it’s for you. You’re doing so well, every inch the countess.

  I don’t feel like a countess.

  You look like one.

  Her piece finished, she waited for the questions she had discussed earlier. Jo Goodson stepped forward again. “Lady Rustead, if you had been alive then, which side would you have been on? You’re the current Countess of Rustead, but you are also an American. Don’t the two sides of your nature conflict?”

  She smiled. “No, not at all, not these days. If I had lived then, I think I would have tried to stay out of it. There was good and bad on both sides. It was wrong to kill the King, but he had tried to rule as a despot, and that couldn’t be good for the country.”

  “Have you studied this period?”

  “I have read the letters between the brothers. They were very close, even when Nathaniel decided to support Parliament, but something happened, something not in the letters or anywhere else, and after Nathaniel joined the Parliamentary army, the letters stopped.”

  Unexpectedly, Jo swung around. “We are very lucky to have the current Earl of Rustead here with us today. Usually he prefers to be known as Nev Heath, the photojournalist, but in a break from his busy life, he’s come here to grace us with his presence.”

  Nathaniel had a choice. He could refuse to be interviewed, walk away, or he could step forward. He stepped forward, taking his place by Sylvie’s side. This, as Jo must know, would make this program a news item. Lord Rustead’s after-hours activities had become ever more public, ever wilder. Would the countess receive him now?

  If she walked away, her reaction would be an item on its own. She could reject him publicly, gain some revenge for all the times Nev had insulted her, ignored her, humiliated her. Sylvie put up her chin and reached for Nathaniel’s hand.

  She had done this once before, when the rumors of their impending divorce had forced Nev to seek her out and stage a social event together. Then, she had done it because she loved the Abbey. Now, after she had made her decision to walk away, she didn’t have to do anything.

  Except this wasn’t Nev Heath, this was Nathaniel Heatherington, and she could feel his pain as sharply as if it were her own.

  His fingers twined with hers and she knew the camera would zoom in on the telling gesture. She told herself she didn’t care. What was one more humiliation? No one but her knew who this man was, so they would think Nev was manipulating her again. It didn’t matter.

  She was mildly surprised when Nathaniel brought their joined hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. Then he spoke.

  “I know you’re all wondering, so I want to tell you. I want my wife to forgive me and take me back, and she’s accepted. It’s more than I deserve. I’ve not been good to her in the past, but I intend to be better in the future.” He tugged until she turned to face him. He smiled into her eyes. “I mean it, Sylvie. I love you, and I want you to forgive me. It’s all my fault, all of it. Don’t answer now, just think about it.”

  Then, as though it was as natural as breathing, he lowered their hands, still linked, and answered the questions about his ‘ancestor’ for the cameras. She felt his thumb gently caress her palm and stood, stunned, taking in what he’d just done.

  He’d taken all the blame Nev had accrued but not accepted over the years. He’d said publicly that the failure of his marriage was entirely his fault.

  Looking around the mass of stunned expressions told her the onlookers were shell-shocked by the earl’s volte-face. Nev had always been hedonistically selfish, never worried about others, not for one minute. While many people might not believe it would last - or even that he meant it, he’d taken the blame.

  Nev—Nathaniel finished discussing the Roundhead Earl of Rustead. He didn’t add anything sensational to the accepted story, and he didn’t refute it, but Sylvie knew there must have been more to the affair than first appeared. Nathaniel was true, she knew that now, and steadfast. Something traumatic must have happened to make him turn away from everything he held dear and stick to a new course. Had it been Vernon’s fault, then?

  Once he’d done, he tugged her hand until she began to move, and he led her up the long gallery, away from the goggling crowd.

  They took the back stairs down to her apartment. She had a small suite of rooms where she could be private, as most peers did these days. She’d chosen these rooms after she’d realized her marriage was effectively over. Not wanting to be reminded of the all too brief passion, and the love she’d poured out to him in private, Sylvie had deliberately chosen somewhere that was all hers. She would have fought to the death any suggestion she should bring Nev here. She took Nathaniel there voluntarily.

  He looked around the lounge, and crossed to the window. “I’ve seen this room so many times,” he murmured, “but never without the veil before.”

  “Veil?” She decided to stay by the door, leaning on the wall beside it.

  “We see everything through a kind of gauze. It lends an unreality to what’s happening. Now it all seems too real.” He turned to fac
e her, the bright, cold winter sunshine striking his right cheek, leaving the other side of his face in shadow. “I’m not sure I can do this, Sylvie. It’s too real. I haven’t known real for a long time.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine what it was like.” She’d spent much of the preceding night trying to imagine it. To lose your corporeal body, to continue to exist, but not to be able to participate.

  “You get used to it.”

  She doubted it. She wanted to walk across what suddenly seemed like a huge expanse of floor to him, but she didn’t know what she should do once she got there. This wasn’t right. The attraction he held for her was magnetic, compulsive, something she had never imagined before. She wanted him to hold her, as Nev never had. The only time they had come together was in lust. Now she wanted to comfort Nathaniel and be comforted in her turn, to touch him with more than lust. But she couldn’t, she mustn’t.

  “Do you have to leave at the end of the week?”

  He swallowed and she watched the movement of his Adam’s apple, not wanting to concentrate on his face. “I have to die at the end of the week, Sylvie. Make no mistake. This is my way out of the endless non-existence I’m leading and I mean to take it. It’s time. I’m sure of it.” He turned away with a jerk, but immediately turned back again. “Nearly sure.”

  The last two words made her lift her eyes to his face. They stared at each other for a fraught moment out of time, and for once, all barriers were down. She saw his anguish, and his love for her. She had known it, but now she saw it.

  She went towards him, and without hesitation, lifted her face for his kiss.

  He didn’t hesitate either, but dipped his head and took her in a gentle embrace, his arms closing around her securely.

  She had come home. This was where she belonged, where she should be, should have been all the days of her life, but it was not to be. They had days, not years. They shared warmth, comfort and the rising flame of passion, curling up between them.

  He tore his lips from hers and stared down at her, eyes blazing. “Walk away, Sylvie. Walk away now.”

  “No.”

  He kissed her again, wildly this time, a brief, hard kiss, and lifted his head again, but he still gripped her tightly in his arms. “We can’t do this. I want to leave you whole, untouched by tragedy. If we become any more involved than this, it will hurt you more. At the end of the week I’ll be beyond pain, but you will not.”

  “Why did you say we had reconciled in front of the cameras?”

  His smile was gently bleak. “I wanted to leave you with the inheritance you should have. I know arrangements have been made to break the entail, and for you to stay on as chairperson of the trust. I also know Nev was planning to renege on the deal.”

  She lifted her chin sharply. “How? How do you know?”

  He lifted one hand from her waist and caressed her chin, a feather light touch she felt all through her body in a thrill of sensation. “I’m in his body, love. Not all of his memories are intact. Perhaps I dislodged them, or he took them with him, but he left some things behind, including his plans for the Abbey.”

  “What did he want to do?”

  Anger flickered in his eyes. “Maximize the profits. The consortium that wanted to take control from you, remember? He was going to sign with them. Not once did consideration for you or for his heritage cross his mind. He had no intention of using the money to improve the Abbey, he wanted to invest it and take it for himself. He was coming back to do that, but it’s all gone now. He took it with him. He signed nothing.”

  “He’s really dead, then? He won’t come back?” She tried not to sound glad, but this final betrayal, on top of everything else, struck her to the heart.

  Gravely, Nathaniel shook his head. “He’s gone. He died the moment his head struck the drive. Head trauma, they would have called it. I’m a temporary resident. My guess is the actual cause of death will be the same. I refused the scan, so they’ll think they missed something when I collapse.”

  “No!” She pulled him close. “Is there no way out of this? Can’t you stay?” She stopped herself, biting her lip to hold back the words.

  “No. Either I succeed in discovering the murderer and pass on to my heavenly reward, or I go back to how I was.”

  “Is it so bad?”

  “Yes.” The word dropped into the silence, filling her with his certainty.

  “I shouldn’t ask, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to stay here.”

  “I haven’t been given the choice.” His gaze softened, the heavenly blue eyes gazing into hers with an expression she didn’t want to try to interpret. It looked like love, but she didn’t want to think it. A few days weren’t enough to begin to explore what they could have, so he was right. They shouldn’t even try.

  Despite her determination, it was hard not to think of how good he felt. When he’d kissed her, it had been like opening up a door to a world she hadn’t been aware of before. Oh, she’d been in love, or thought she had been, but this was a true communion of souls.

  She wanted it again. Just once more, she told herself.

  The same desire gazed back at her from his eyes. He didn’t ask, but bent his head to her.

  If he were true to his purpose, he wouldn’t touch her like this again. She had to make the most of it. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, allowing him to take anything he wanted and taking what she wanted in return.

  He tasted different, new. Spicy, without the tang she vaguely disliked in her husband, but tolerated because she’d imagined herself in love with him. He kissed her slowly at first, as though savoring her essence, but when she pressed closer, he took her invitation and deepened the kiss, almost reverently.

  Here in his arms was home. Safety, shelter, mutual passion, adventure, everything she wanted but hadn’t dared assume existed for her. It hadn’t; it still didn’t. She held on to the slim thread of sanity grimly, knowing it was her lifeline, so when he pushed her gently away she almost expected it.

  “I can’t do this to you. I love you more than I can say, and I don’t want any sin to mar my soul, but more importantly, I want you to move on and find happiness. There’s no lasting happiness here, only fleeting joy. It’s not enough, not for you, Sylvie.”

  Before she could reply he spun on one heel and strode to the door, leaving her alone. The door closed quietly on the tears she could no longer suppress.

  Chapter Five

  Downstairs, Nathaniel tolerated the attentions of the TV crew, who were all charmed by his unexpected arrival at the Abbey. Some were more than charmed. The younger of the two mediums, Jo Goodson, clung like a leech, hooking her arm through his and hanging on. They dined in the large room, and when it became obvious Sylvie wasn’t coming down, he touched her mind with his and told the truth. “She has a headache and she’s worn out. I might have been asleep last night, but she didn’t have much rest.”

  “Is it true you’ve reconciled with her?” Angela Murdoch, producer of Hosts to Ghosts stared at him with the hard eyes of a professional journalist.

  “We’ve decided to try,” he admitted. “I won’t be leaving home for a while, and it seems like a good time to see what we have.” He knew what they had, and it wasn’t for public consumption. “It turns out, we have quite a lot.” There he drew his line in the proverbial sand. He wasn’t prepared to go any further, not in public.

  The little gasp from the woman sitting by his side surprised him a little, since Jo Goodson and Nev Heath had never met, to his knowledge, but there were gaps in the late earl’s memory he couldn’t fill. Nev had taken them with him. Most of his skills were thankfully still intact. He knew how to frame a photograph, the little tricks that would ensure the one picture out of twenty that was memorable, that seemed to catch a moment in time. On the other hand, he had no idea how to ride a motor bike, other than straddling it like a horse and hanging on. He’d be far better off on a horse. It was as well he was only here for a few days. He’d be bound to blow his cover
, sooner or later, if he had to act like his predecessor.

  He smiled at Jo, trying for the easy charm that had come so naturally to Nev, but was mildly surprised to find a hard stare waiting for him. “You mean it? You’ve reconciled with her?”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  She glanced at Angela, then back at him, her expression softening. “I see. Taking care of business, I think you called it once?”

  Did he? He didn’t remember. Perhaps the press had quoted him sometime. He knew he’d been in the Sundays, the photojournalist in front of the cameras in one, and a more sycophantic cousin-to-the-Queen interview favored by the tabloids.

  “Maybe I did.” He was safer with the vague. He would have to ask Sylvie, once she woke up.

  What to do about Sylvie? All through the exhausting dinner he watched, fielded increasingly awkward questions, and thought. He loved her so much she’d almost completely overwhelmed him in her room earlier. He’d always been able to see and hear her, but ghosts don’t feel, ghosts don’t touch. Now his senses were filled with her presence and every one of them was on full alert. Taste, he couldn’t forget taste. She tasted like the best raspberry syllabub he’d ever had; smooth, creamy with a hint of sharp, ripe fruit.

  More than anything he wanted to go to her, comfort her, undress her slowly, enjoying the removal of each piece of clothing, kiss every inch of her luscious body and only then make love to her, entering her and giving her everything he was.

  It was impossible. Before, he might have considered it, but he knew for sure she loved him and for that reason he couldn’t leave her with a memory that might last a lifetime. He couldn’t even tell her he could visit her once a year, and love her then, as his brother had done, for at the end of this week he would die.

  He’d entered this pact wanting nothing more, half hoping full recognition of Sylvie would stop this madness that had infected him since she’d walked through the door six years earlier. But it hadn’t. He was mad for her still, crazy for her, as though she was the oasis in the desert, the cool, clear spring water on a hot day.