by Angie Ray
Margaret really didn’t want to listen. She was too tired. Which wasn’t surprising since she hadn’t slept well last night. The sensible thing to do would be to excuse herself and go to bed. But the more she heard about the Trevellyan ghost, the more reluctant she grew.
Not because she believed this silly ghost business, she told herself, as Cousin Winifred started a new chapter. Last night had merely been a particularly realistic dream. She was completely certain of that. She was not frightened at all.
Well, maybe just a teeny-tiny bit. Just the itsiest bitsiest iota. Just the teensiest-weensiest smidgin....
Her eyes closed for an instant, then fluttered open. As Cousin Winifred’s voice droned on, Margaret’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier. A few times she nodded off, and was awakened by her head falling sideways.
Aunt Letty finally noticed.
“Margaret, dear child! Take yourself off to bed, or you will be asleep on the sofa.”
Margaret roused herself and looked blearily around the room. The fog cleared a little when she noticed Bernard staring at her strangely.
“Very well. I am tired,” she said, trying not to yawn.
Bernard rose to his feet. “I will escort you.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. Goodnight, everyone.”
But as she walked up the stairs she began to wish she had accepted Bernard’s offer. It wouldn’t have hurt to ask him to check the room for her. Only he probably would have given her another lecture about the observance of society’s rules or something.
Her steps slowed and her fatigue dissipated as she approached her room. No one is in there, she told herself sternly. Absolutely no one.
Her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Leaning forward, she rested her ear against the smooth panel, listening intently.
How foolish she was. She couldn’t hear a thing. All was quiet; completely, absolutely si--
Wait! What was that? It sounded like...like a footstep! Inside her room!
Heart racing, she threw open the door with a crash.
Yvette jumped and turned around, her hand covering her rounded bosom. “Lord, miss, what a fright you gave me,” she exclaimed.
“Sorry, Yvette.” Margaret looked around the room. It looked perfectly normal, yet instead of calming her, somehow she grew more nervous.
She stood tensely, her eyes darting as Yvette helped her into the white cotton nightgown.
“Goodnight, miss.” Yvette left, leaving Margaret alone.
She placed the lamp on the table by the bed. Deciding to leave it lit, she pulled the blanket up to her ears and closed her eyes.
For a few minutes, her senses remained alert. But she truly was very tired. Gradually, her body relaxed, and before long she drifted off to sleep.
This time when she woke, her eyes flew immediately to the lamp by her bed. It had gone out. And yet, an eerie glow was filling the room.
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut and once again smelled the rich aroma of tobacco. She began to pray. “Please dear God, please make it go away, and I will never be disrespectful again and I will always obey and I will not think terrible thoughts and I will--“
“Who the devil are you?” a harsh voice rang out.
Chapter Four
Cautiously, Margaret opened her eyes a tiny fraction.
A hazy figure was standing by her bed, glaring down at her.
She squeaked and closed her eyes tightly.
“Dammit all,” the voice roared. “What are you doing here?”
Timidly, she raised her eyelids a notch. The apparition was still there. She opened her eyes a little wider, and gradually the figure took on definition. She could see the tapping foot, the arms akimbo, the sensuous lips frowning at her, the haughty aquiline nose, and the deeply hooded eyes which were flashing with ill-disguised impatience. He was not wearing the loose hunting clothes he had worn in the portrait; instead he wore a form-fitting dark greenish-blue coat, with a light buff-colored waistcoat and knee breeches, which made his shoulders look broader, his arms and legs more powerful. His hair was different too, she saw. It was cropped closely to his head. But there could be no doubt.
It was Phillip Eglinton, second viscount Holwell, to the life--or to the death. He looked like a real person, except that he was bathed in an unearthly glow, and she rather thought that he was hovering above the ground. She shut her eyes. This could not be happening.
A ghost!
“Damnation, are you deaf or just a lackwit?”
“I...I’ll thank you not to swear, sir,” Margaret croaked inanely, her fingers clutching convulsively at the blanket. Then gathering up her courage, “And I’ll thank you to leave my room at once.”
“Your audacity is most entertaining, sweeting,” he said. He didn’t look entertained. His eyes were cold and indifferent. “But I have a deuce of a headache and I’m in no mood for games tonight. Nor do I need a whore, so I’ll thank you to leave my room now, or I’ll boot you out on your pretty arse.”
Whore? She sat up abruptly, the word ringing in her ears, anger drowning out some her fright. “Why you...you insolent scoundrel! You impudent...whatever you are,” she said, less than eloquently. Carefully holding the blanket to her chin to preserve her modesty, she glared at him.
He frowned fiercely, but Margaret, quivering and sputtering, refused to look away. His heavy dark brows lowered, but she only angled her chin higher. He muttered an ugly oath; she pursed her lips tightly.
What are you doing? shrieked a small, panic-stricken corner of her brain. This was a ghost, for heaven’s sake! Not for the first time in her life, she had allowed her temper to draw her into an untenable situation. Pride kept her chin up and her eyes fastened to his, but her mouth trembled as she waited in dread for him to punish her impudence with some sort of supernatural retribution.
His gaze fell to her mouth.
When he glanced up again, there was a spark of laughter lighting his eyes. The harsh lines in his face softened and his stance eased. He looked positively amused.
“My dear girl, I am only a man, and though by rights I can call myself a gentleman, ‘tis not often I try to make that claim. Especially when there’s a woman in my bed.” His gaze swept over her unbound hair and a different light entered his eyes. His lips curved sensuously and his voice grew husky. “Perhaps I am in the mood for love after all, sweeting. How can I refuse such an exquisite invitation?”
Margaret felt a blush creeping up into her face. He smiled wickedly and moved--floated?--closer. He loomed by the side of the bed, large, male, threatening. Margaret’s mouth went dry, her skin prickled.
“It’s devilishly cold in here, my dear. What do you say I ring for a fire and a bottle of brandy?” He leaned over her, his face drawing nearer. She pressed herself back against the pillows, watching him with wide mesmerized eyes. He was so close, she could see the fine texture of his skin. A barely discernable shadow of stubble on his chin made him look more rakish, more dangerous than ever.
She closed her eyes once more. “You are a figment of my imagination,” she said sternly. “A dream. When I open my eyes you will be gone. I do not believe in ghosts.”
Margaret opened her eyes and stared into the ghost’s smiling eyes.
“I am glad to hear it, my dear. I don’t believe in ‘em either.”
“But--“ Was she insane? “You are a ghost.”
“What the devil is the matter with you, girl?” He drew back from her, his smile fading. “Are you in truth deranged? Of course I am not a ghost.” He looked tired suddenly, his hand rising to rub wearily at his forehead. “At least--“
He broke off, his brow creasing. Slowly he lowered his hand and stared at the glowing member. He held up his other hand and turned them both this way and that, flexing and spreading his long slender fingers, as if trying to find the source of the light.
Dropping his hands, he stared hard at Margaret. “Who are you and why are you in my room?” he asked again, his voice deadly, all traces of
amusement gone.
She quailed a little under his look. “I am Margaret Westbourne, and I am sorry, I didn’t know this was your room. I would think Aunt Letty has your room. I’ll gladly move if that is your wish.”
For the first time he looked around, his gaze lingering on the bed’s pagoda roof and the japanned dressing table. His hand passed across his eyes. “Forgive me. I don’t know how I made such a mistake. I see now this is not my room. But this is Durnock Castle, is it not?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then what are you doing here, Miss Westbourne? I don’t remember inviting you.”
“You didn’t. Bernard did. Lord Barnett, that is. My fiance. He brought me to meet Aunt Letty. Durnock Castle belongs to her now.”
“That is impossible. I own this castle.”
“Perhaps you should discuss this with Aunt Letty,” Margaret said uneasily. “I know she would like to see you, since she was so fond of you when you were alive.”
“When I was...hell and the devil! Are you trying to say I am....” His voice trailed off as he held up his hand again, staring at it. “What year is this?” he asked in a strange voice.
“Eighteen hundred forty-seven,” she whispered.
His features froze into a mask of shock. The glow around him flared, a pure bright white, then rippled in ever increasing waves. His form wavered and dissipated, the light fading and shrinking into one tiny spark. It hung suspended in the air for a second more, then vanished, leaving the room in cold, dark silence.
Her heart thudding, Margaret sat quietly for several long minutes. She reached out and groped for the candle on her bedside table and lit it with shaking hands. Then she lay down, turning on her side so she could stare at the spot where he had stood. She pinched herself hard and felt the sharp sting of pain. She was awake. Wide, wide awake.
She closed her eyes, her brain a mad jumble. Only one thought was clear and no explanation, no excuse could serve to deny it.
She had just been visited by a ghost!
Chapter Five
Bright sunlight illuminated Margaret’s room the next morning, making such notions seem incredible. Last night had a fantastical quality to it that defied belief. Perhaps it had been a dream after all, insisted her rational side.
But in her heart, she knew it had been no dream. Phillip had been too real, too vital. Lying on her side, her cheek against the pillow, she looked over at the spot where he had appeared. She could recall every movement, every expression, every word, as clearly as if he stood beside her now. She could remember his barely constrained impatience, his cold anger, and his flirtatious smile.
He had been incredibly crude. Certainly she could never have imagined such a disgusting dialogue. Telling her he did not need a whore! Obviously she was no such thing. He should have known immediately that she wasn’t that kind of woman. Such a female would have smiled at him. She would probably have drawn back the blanket, and held out a hand to him, so he could climb in beside her and....
Margaret could feel her blood rushing through her veins. From indignation, of course.
She sat up and rang for her maid. “Yvette,” she said when the girl made her appearance. “I am feeling a trifle indisposed this morning. I will take my breakfast here.”
While she ate, it occurred to her that perhaps someone was playing a practical joke on her. Hurriedly she finished her meal and started searching the room for evidence of the ghost’s presence. Evidence that would point to a human presence. She crouched down, carefully inspecting the green carpet for wax drippings or cigar ashes or anything else that would show that someone had been in her room.
She found nothing.
Perhaps there was a secret passage. She examined the wallpaper, with its pattern of leafy green trees, for cracks. She knocked on panels, pressed knobs, and checked the fireplace for loose bricks. She did not find anything, but she made a mental note to ask Aunt Letty if such a passage existed.
When she had exhausted all the possibilities, she sat down at the dressing table, propping her elbows on its surface with her chin in her hands. In her mind, she relived the entire scene, recalling every word the ghost had said.
How hateful he had been, she thought. And yet, there had also been something compelling about him. Some force that made him seem very much alive, very magnetic, very attractive....
Dear heaven, she was deranged. Her corset must be too tight and lack of oxygen was affecting her brain. She was actually sighing over a ghost! It was obviously a mistake to stay in this room and let her fancies run wild.
She rose abruptly from the dressing table. She needed some rational company. She would go downstairs and seek out...well, not Aunt Letty or Cousin Winifred. Bernard, perhaps. She could count on him to be completely sensible at all times.
The more she thought about seeking out Bernard, the more the idea appealed. Perhaps she would even tell him about the ghost. He might be skeptical at first, but surely he would believe her. Besides, she was bursting with the need to tell someone.
After dressing in a jaconet pelisse-robe with a cerise print, and a lace cap which framed her face becomingly, she went downstairs. She found Bernard in the study, a small room off the much grander library. He sat in an armchair, reading, his forest-green coat clashing with the bottle-green velvet upholstery. Laying the slim volume aside, he rose to his feet. “Margaret, are you feeling better?”
“Yes, Bernard.” She sat down opposite him and tried to think of a way to introduce the subject of Phillip. She didn’t want to blurt out something foolish the way she had yesterday. Her gaze fell on the book he had placed on the table. “What are you reading?” she finally asked.
“The Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium,” he replied. “Although old, it contains some excellent studies of insects.”
“Oh. How...interesting.” She detested insects--they crept and crawled and jumped--but Bernard had always liked them, she remembered.
“I enjoy reading something educational. I don’t care for the Gothic novels that Miss Driscoll favors.”
“Nor do I.” Margaret was glad to agree with him for once. “Actually I prefer travel books.” Travel books had been her greatest pleasure the last three years. “I am reading one now about the Sandwich Islands.”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t think travel books were appropriate reading material for an unmarried woman.”
“But they are very interesting. The different cultures are so fascinating. Why, in the book I am reading, it tells how the natives stand up on pieces of wood and sail over the waves.”
“What nonsense. The author probably made it up.”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. He was a missionary, and I doubt a man of the cloth would lie--“
“Nevertheless, it sounds highly unlikely.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to go to such a place? And actually see such sights?”
“Travelling is not so romantic as it sounds, Margaret. You know I spent the last seven years in India. It was often dirty, ugly, and smelly. You will be much happier at Barnett Manor, in our own little village with our good friends and neighbors. Don’t you think so, Margaret?”
“Yes, Bernard.” Of course he was right. She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. She didn’t truly want to go haring off to the Sandwich Islands; she wanted to settle at Barnett Manor and enjoy watching Lady Creevy and the rest of the village eat humble pie.
She didn’t think she would tell Bernard about Phillip, though. Although she had once confided everything to him, that had been a long time ago. Everything had changed now.
She became aware of a tightness in her chest. Her corset was definitely too tight. In fact, it was so tight, it was practically suffocating her. She sucked in her breath, trying to ease the restriction.
Margaret was glad when a commotion out in the hall provided a distraction. She heard a clear voice call out, “Aunt Letty! Aunt Letty! Hello!”
Margaret looked at Bernard.
“My sist
er,” he explained. Then he added, “She’s never been one for formality.”
He rose to his feet and together they went out in the hall. A plump woman with dark shiny hair stood there, directing the servants with the luggage in between calls for Aunt Letty.
“Hello Cecilia.”
“Bernard! What are you doing here?”
“I brought my fiancee to meet my family.”
“Your fiancee! Good heavens! Geoffrey! Geoffrey!” she yelled out the door. “Come here! Bernard is engaged!”
A tall, slim man with a crutch under one arm entered the house. As he moved forward, Margaret could see that his right leg was missing from the knee down. She swallowed a little and looked up into his face. He had cold green eyes, and deep lines grooved his forehead.
“Miss Margaret Westbourne, my fiancee,” said Bernard briefly. “Mrs. Cecilia Barstow, my sister, and Mr. Geoffrey Barstow, her husband.”
“What a pleasure to meet you,” said Cecilia, shaking her hand warmly. Geoffrey nodded.
“Bernard, why didn’t you write us?” continued Cecilia.
“I did. To Aunt Letty that is. I believe she forgot.”
“Oh dear. But never mind. This is so exciting. It’s about time you married, Bernard.”
Before he could reply, a streak of arms and legs flashed by Margaret and skidded to a halt in front of Bernard.
“Look, Uncle Bernard, a twitchbell!” the boy exclaimed.
“Jeremy Barstow,” scolded his mother. “Mind your manners! Make your bow and say hello to the lady your uncle is going to marry.”
Jeremy complied, the excitement dying out of his face. He was a thin, wiry boy, seven or eight years of age, with his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but without her vivacity. He did not respond to Margaret’s tentative smile.
“Why don’t you show me your twitchbell now?” Bernard said.
Margaret glanced at him in surprise. Somehow she had not expected him to take much interest in his nephew.