Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

The ruby ring rested snugly in the palm of her hand. She stared at it for a long minute, her brain reluctantly accepting the truth. She had been right; the ring had been the key to releasing Phillip from the curse. And now he was gone.

  Margaret dropped the ring on the table and put her head down on her arms.

  “Why so glum, Margaret?”

  “Phillip!”

  He stood before her in the early morning light, his glow a bit fainter, but his eyes glinting as usual. She jumped to her feet, taking an impetuous step forward, before she remembered and stopped.

  He grinned wryly. “I wish I could kiss you too, sweeting.”

  “That’s not--oh, never mind.” She was too happy to try to conceal it. “What are you doing here? I thought the curse was broken.”

  “Apparently I must take the ruby with me.”

  “Oh.” So it was only a temporary reprieve. Her joy dimmed. “I have it right here.”

  She picked up the ring. The weight of it in her hand felt like lead. It was extremely hideous, she thought, with ornate gold sworls and the ruby gleaming evilly like blood trapped in ice.

  “Well?” His voice was abrupt. Startled, she dropped the ring. With a small bounce, it landed out of sight under the dressing table.

  “Dammit!” she exclaimed.

  “Really Margaret, I’m shocked.”

  She blushed. “Oh, you are a terrible influence on me, you wicked man.”

  “You will be glad when I am gone, then.”

  Margaret reached under the table for the ring, not looking at him. She must let him go. Her brain urged her to do it quickly, before she made a complete fool of herself. “Yes, I will,” she lied.

  “That’s not what your lips said to mine. You kissed me so sweetly, Margaret. And the feel of you in my arms...your hair is as soft as it looks, as soft as I had imagined. Dear God, Margaret, how I wanted to hold you forever, to kiss you forever, to--“

  She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t let him see how her heart was breaking. If he didn’t stop, she would forget her sanity and plead with him to stay, she would take the ring and throw it in the deepest part of the river where it could never be found. “I...I...oh, look, here it is.”

  She held out the ring, barely able to see because of the tears filling her eyes.

  She could feel him hesitating. Why didn’t he take it and go? Through her tears, she saw his bright hand reaching out. Her fingers tightened on the gold for a moment. Forcing herself to let go, she dropped the ring into his waiting palm.

  The ring fell through his hand and onto the floor.

  *****

  “Hell and the devil!” Phillip glared first at his hand, then at the floor.

  Margaret stared blankly at the ring. “Dear heaven, what can this mean?”

  “It means the curse is not broken, obviously.”

  Happiness and relief flooded her, making her smile radiantly. But he had turned away and didn’t see her expression.

  “It means we are right back where we started and we have no idea how to break this damned curse.”

  Something in his voice stopped her burgeoning joy. She looked at him more closely. The bright glow outlining his tense shoulders ebbed and shimmered for a moment before brightening again, making her blink hard to clear her vision. Was it her imagination or was he glowing less brightly than before? Alarm coursed through her. “Phillip are you fading?”

  He turned back to look at her, brows drawn. “Yes, Margaret.” She gasped and his mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Every time I appear, it uses up a portion of my ‘strength’, I suppose you would call it. Stepping into Bernard’s body was especially draining. If we don’t break the curse soon, I will no longer be able to appear.” He looked away from her and stared into the dark corner of her room. “Very likely seventy-eight years will pass before I have enough strength to try again.”

  The blood drained from Margaret’s face. “I don’t understand. What went wrong? The curse should be broken. Everything that belonged to Lord Mortimer is now in your--I mean, in Bernard’s possession.”

  Suddenly, shockingly, pure venom wiped the resigned expression from Phillip’s face. “Barnett!” he spat, each syllable filled with loathing. “Of course.” His glow brightened and he began to pace around the room. “I’ll wager your betrothed is somehow responsible for my presence. All along the coincidence of finding Robeson’s spawn here has bothered me. Now the reason is clear. I’m here not because of some foolish curse, but to revenge myself on Mortimer’s and Robeson’s descendents!”

  Margaret stepped back, a hand rising to her throat. “I can’t believe that,” she whispered. “Bernard has never harmed anyone.”

  “Perhaps not, but as the Bible says, ‘The iniquities of the fathers shall be visited upon the children.’ As you and I both know, justice is not always fair.”

  Not always fair? Margaret’s hand dropped to her side and she stared at Phillip. That was his excuse for seeking revenge? For committing such wickedness against innocent Bernard?

  Her initial dismay began to fade as anger took its place. “What nonsense!” she snapped, fists clenching at her sides. “Because you’ve been wronged, do you now envision yourself as some sort of avenging angel? Harming Bernard will serve no purpose and if you so much as say ‘boo’ to him I’ll...I’ll curse you myself!”

  “So.” Phillip strode around the room, his voice cold as the air surrounding him. “Even now you defend him. Now, when it’s clear that it is he and only he that prevents me from leaving.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t believe you’ve been trapped between life and death for over seventy-eight years just so you can wreak some horrible revenge on a man as good and kind as Bernard. There must be something else. Something the Gypsy didn’t tell me.”

  Phillip stopped by the fireplace, his face slightly averted, but Margaret could see he was listening. She spoke more calmly, her words coaxing and conciliating.

  “I will go to the Gypsy and ask her. She will know what to do, I am sure of it. Probably we are overlooking some silly thing, or maybe there is some sort of ceremony we must observe to formally break the curse. Phillip--“ She stepped to his side, bending forward to see his face. “I will go to the fair this afternoon and talk to the Gypsy.”

  Phillip didn’t reply immediately. Margaret waited tensely, afraid that he intended to refuse her and continue his quest for revenge. Slow minutes ticked by.

  The silence had grown almost intolerable, when he nodded curtly. “I will agree with one condition. You must summon the Gypsy here. I want to hear what she has to say.”

  Margaret went limp with relief. “Very well. I will send a servant to request that Madame Razinski come today. We will find out exactly what we must do. We will break this curse, Phillip, I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Gypsy entered the West Parlor regally, as if she were a queen. She looked very much as she had at the fair, only instead of the tattered shawl, she wore a flowing purple robe and her coarse hair was covered by a matching turban with a large diamond in the center. The mole on her face looked bigger than Margaret remembered. Margaret stared at it. Hadn’t it been on the other cheek?

  “This is your Gypsy? She looks like an actress from Drury Lane.” Phillip was leaning against the wall--although not quite touching it--his legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his chest. Although his image was faint, Margaret could clearly see his expression of combined amusement and disgust. “This should be as entertaining as a play. Are there to be acrobats and a ballet, too?”

  Margaret glared at him. His future--and possibly Bernard’s--was at stake. The seriousness of the situation made his sarcasm inappropriate. Even if the Gypsy did look a trifle...well, theatrical.

  “I am Madame Razinski,” said the Gypsy. “How may I be of service, Lady?”

  Conscious of Phillip’s derision, Margaret sat on the sofa, turning her shoulder so she wouldn’t have to see his mocking face. She smiled at the Gypsy. “Ma
dame Razinski, please sit down. I have a friend who believes one of his ancestors was cursed.”

  “Yes, I remember you asked about ze curse before.” The woman sank down on the floor, her knees cracking loudly. She arranged the patched skirt around her.

  “We tried to break it by retrieving a token of...of the ancestor’s from his enemy. It did not work,” Margaret said. “We don’t know if we had the wrong token, or even if there is a token.”

  “Ah. Tell me of zis curse, Lady. I need to know ze precise wording.”

  “Let’s see.” Margaret tried to remember. “I believe it went like this: ‘You and yours will never attain that which you most wish for; you and yours will falter and fail; you and yours will diminish and die.’”

  “And ze curse, it has come true?”

  Margaret hesitated. “I think so. Although nothing truly terrible happened after the curse.”

  “I see.” Madame Razinski placed her hands together and looked thoughtful. “I will have to commune wiz ze spirit world to discover ze answer.”

  Phillip snorted. “If this woman knows the first thing about curses or spirits, by God, I’ll give you and Bernard my blessing.”

  Margaret ignored him. “Then pray do so, Madame Razinski.”

  “It will be of ze most difficult--and expensive.”

  Without a word, Margaret placed several bills in front of the woman.

  The money quickly disappeared into the folds of Madame Razinski’s gown. Raising her arms above her head, bracelets jangling, she began to sway and moan and sigh. She reached higher and higher into the air as if trying to catch hold of something, the moans increasing in volume to a high-pitched wail.

  “She sounds like a paid mourner at a funeral,” Phillip grumbled.

  Suddenly, the noise stopped and the Gypsy slumped down. Her turban almost fell off, but she swiftly raised a hand to hold it in place.

  Startled by the Gypsy’s near collapse, Margaret jumped up and knelt beside her, patting her hand. “Madame Razinski? Are you all right?”

  Moving her hand to her brow, Madame Razinski lifted her head and tilted it back. Her eyes were half shut and only the whites showed beneath her lids. “I have ze answer,” she said in a faraway voice.

  Margaret, her fingers tightening on the Gypsy’s hand, grew still. “Yes?”

  “Zere is a token.”

  Margaret leaned forward, excitement filling her. “Yes?”

  “But ze curse, it is weak.”

  “Weak?”

  “Yes, weak.” Madame Razinski nodded her head wisely. “Because ze person zat cursed your friend’s ancestor did not have possession of ze token.”

  “But would the curse work, then?”

  “Yes, because ze item, it was of great significance to ze victim.”

  “I don’t understand. What does this mean? Can the curse be broken or not?”

  The Gypsy shrugged. “Zis is hard to say, Lady. Perhaps. Perhaps not. For another small fee, I can seek ze answer to zis question also.”

  Dropping the other woman’s hand, Margaret sat back on her heels. She stole a look at Phillip. He had moved right behind her and was scowling at Madame Razinski.

  Margaret averted her gaze and dug into her reticule once more.

  Before she could give the woman any more money though, the door opened, and Bernard looked in. “Margaret, may I speak to you?” He saw the Gypsy and stopped abruptly, drawing himself up. “What is this old fraud doing here? And why are you sitting on the floor, Margaret?”

  Margaret rose hastily to her feet.

  “For once I agree with Bernard,” Phillip said into her ear. “This woman is obviously a charlatan.”

  “Oh, hush!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Bernard drew himself up, looking mortally offended.

  “Not you, Bernard,” Margaret said impatiently.

  “Not...oh, you mean he is here?” Bernard glared around the room.

  Margaret shrugged.

  The Gypsy looked bewildered. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “A ghost,” Bernard snapped. “Here in this room.”

  “A ghost? In ‘ere?” The Gypsy stood up, her face paling under her heavy makeup. “Where is ‘e? Oi don’t ‘old with no ghosts, oi don’t!”

  Margaret stared at the Gypsy whose voice had taken on an accent that suddenly sounded more Cockney than Egyptian.

  Madame Razinski headed for the door, eyes darting frantically. “Oi be leavin’. Oi don’t like this talk of curses and ghosts--Oi don’t believe in ‘em and neither should you. You would think a fancy pair like yourselves would know the difference between wot’s real and wot’s make-believe. Don’t you know these things is all in your head?” With one more frightened look around the room, the Gypsy left, slamming the door behind her.

  Margaret and Bernard gaped after her. A small black spot on the floor caught Margaret’s eye and she leaned over to pick it up. It was the mole from the Gypsy’s cheek.

  “I’d say her mole was as authentic as the rest of her,” Phillip remarked sardonically.

  “Good heavens, who was that?” Aunt Letty asked wandering in. “She looked rather peculiar.”

  “Madame Razinski, a Gypsy,” Margaret replied, still staring at the mole.

  “A Gypsy?” Aunt Letty’s brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared. “A Gypsy! How clever of you, Margaret. Did she say how to break the curse?”

  “Er, she said we must retrieve a token--a personal item that belonged to Phillip and was used to seal--“

  “Pardon me, Margaret,” Bernard interrupted. “I would very much like to speak to you privately. Aunt Letty, would you mind?”

  “Not at all. You young lovebirds want to be alone.” She left the room muttering, “A token....”

  Slowly Margaret looked at Bernard. He was looking very stiff. Her heart sank. Now what?

  “Margaret, I’ve been thinking about last night.”

  She groaned silently.

  “I must know,” he continued. “Was Phillip possessing me?”

  Margaret hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, but lately Bernard had been quite unpredictable. How would he react, knowing Phillip had taken over his body? Before she could decide though, Bernard came to his own conclusion.

  “Never mind. I can see by your expression he was.” He grew silent, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “So,” he muttered softly, almost as if to himself. “It was Phillip who kissed you.”

  Margaret blushed. Bernard looked at her and she knew guilt was written all over her face.

  “Margaret, do you love him?”

  The blood drained from her face. What kind of question was that, to ask if she were in love with a ghost? She glanced over at Phillip, silently watching the scene being enacted before him. Her gaze met his for a long moment before she looked away, back to Bernard, who was watching her closely.

  “I told you, I--“

  “Yes, yes. You admire his courage.” He stepped towards her. “Is he here now?”

  She nodded.

  Bernard closed his eyes. His brow furrowed, and he appeared deep in thought. After a while, he sighed and opened his eyes again. He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping when it came to Phillip.

  Margaret gasped. “Bernard! Can you--?”

  His mouth tight, he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. He didn’t appear too pleased by his ability.

  “But how?”

  It was Bernard’s turn to sigh. “I think I always had the capability. I merely didn’t care to exercise it.” His level gaze met Phillip’s sardonic one. “Margaret, will you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  He wanted her to leave? Surely he must be joking.

  “Go on, sweeting. I think BarnOwl has something to say, not fit for a lady’s ears.”

  Bernard flushed, whether at the derogatory name or the endearment, Margaret wasn’t sure.

  She glared at the two men, but they didn’t notice. They were too busy trying to stare each other down. With an mut
tered exclamation and her skirts twitching, she swished out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  *****

  So the idiot could see him. Interesting, Phillip thought, a smile curling his lip. The situation promised to be most entertaining. “You had something to say to me, Barnett?”

  The mockery in his voice was plain. Bernard straightened, his lips tightening. “Why don’t you go away and leave Margaret alone? We don’t want you here.”

  Phillip’s smile grew wider. “Are you certain of that, Barnett? Have you asked Margaret what she wants? I think you might be surprised.”

  Bernard’s hands clenched into fists.

  Phillip grinned.

  “She’s not for you, Holwell.”

  Phillip’s grin faded. “What makes you so certain?” he asked coldly.

  “You’re a ghost! What kind of life will she have if she’s in love with a ghost?”

  Phillip turned away to study the painting of St. Adelheid over the fireplace. “Perhaps I will take her with me.”

  Bernard stared in horror. “You couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t I?” Phillip laughed.

  “Damn you, you’re not good enough for her.”

  “And you think you are? You didn’t even stand up for her when the village ostracized her.”

  Bernard grew even paler. “What do you mean? That’s not true--“

  “She wants a man, and even as a ghost, I’m more of a man than you are.”

  “What kind of man would take a woman’s life? Do you even know what will happen to you when you leave here? I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up in hell. Is that what you want for Margaret?”

  Phillip froze, fury rushing through him. “What I want is to make you suffer, Barnett. Just as your great-grandfather made me suffer. That’s why I’m here, to have revenge against my enemies.” Phillip smiled silkily. “That means you, Bernard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Margaret paced the hallway anxiously. It seemed like they had been in there forever. What was happening? She crouched down and pressed an ear to the keyhole, but all she could hear was the low murmur of voices.