Alice scolded herself. Rumors of ghosts had ignited her imagination, already made overactive by her pregnancy. Hadn’t Ross chided her for it, only last week?
The pawprints led to the stable entrance, and relief washed over her.
“Twinkle!” she called. “Come here, girl!”
She picked up the pace.
Another wail rose up, from inside the stables—a cry to curdle the blood, full of pain and despair.
A cry from beyond the grave.
“Ahh…cursed…cursed!” a voice wailed in a low, warbling tone.
Shaking, Alice clutched the lantern and approached the stables, then her heart skipped a beat as she heard a familiar whine.
Twinkle!
The defenseless little creature was alone, in the stables, with whatever resided there.
“Why?” the voice wailed. “Why can you not free me from the curse?”
Footsteps shuffled inside the stables, then the voice cried out again—this time, much closer.
“Isabella!”
A large shape lunged at her out of the darkness, and she screamed. The lantern smashed to the ground, flared briefly then went out.
Two inhumanly strong hands grasped her shoulders and a face appeared before her, its features distorted with pain, teeth bared, eyes dark against deathly pale skin.
She tried to scream but couldn’t draw breath. Her vision blurred and the world began to sway to and fro. She bit her lip, using the sharp pain to pull her back into reality.
She was not going to faint. Ghosts did not exist, save in the imagination of the fearful and the grief-stricken.
“Isabella…” a voice whispered.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.
It was Mr. Scrimgeour.
“Will you not forgive me?” he pleaded. “Have I not suffered enough from your curse? Release me, I beg you!”
“What curse?” Alice asked.
He let out a mirthless laugh. “The curse you put on me on your deathbed, the day the Almighty took you from me—and our child! The day you said I would kill everything good that I touched, because I deserved my place in hell.”
Dear God! What had happened to the poor man?
He thrust his face closer. “Have I not served my sentence, Isabella? Can you not rest in peace and leave me be?”
The pain in his voice tore Alice’s heart in two.
“I forgive you!” she cried, driven by an urge to ease his torment.
He pulled her close, desperation and hope in his expression.
“Y-you forgive me?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I lift you from the curse.”
He tipped his head forward and placed it on her shoulder and she drew him close as his body shook with sobs.
“Shhh…” she soothed.
“Are you at peace now, Isabella?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I am at peace.”
“And you no longer hate me?”
“No.”
“Did you ever love me, Isabella? Do you love me now?”
Alice hesitated.
He stiffened in her arms.
“You’re not Isabella.”
His voice grew hard and he lifted his head to stare directly at her. The despair in his gaze was replaced by cold anger, and he tightened his grip on her shoulders, until she gasped with pain.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Edward held the intruder at arm’s length, and stared at her. Like Isabella, but unlike. She lacked Isabella’s brittle porcelain beauty, a quality he’d once found captivating, but soon learned disguised a heart of stone.
“Let me go—you’re hurting me, sir!”
It was the woman from Pengarron—Mrs. Trelawney—the woman who’d come to his home yesterday, all fire and vengeance, defending the child she loved. The woman he’d thought might be worth knowing, but in the end, was just like the others—come to mock him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Does your husband not provide you with sufficient entertainment at home that you seek it by mocking the Beast of Boscarne?”
“No…”
“Does it amuse you to witness my insanity?”
“Of course not,” she said, “I came looking for my dog.”
“At this hour? In your condition?” he asked. “Do you take me for a simpleton? A dog, indeed!”
“I speak the truth!” she snapped. “Did you not tell my daughter you’d strangle her dog if you caught her on your property? I came here to prevent another murder at your hands!”
Her words sliced through his heart.
She drew in a sharp breath. “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
His anger ebbed as he looked at her determined expression. She’d been driven by the need to protect a life—to protect it from him. This brave little woman believed him capable of such a deed! But had he given her, or anyone else, cause to believe any different?
“I wouldn’t hurt your dog,” he said.
“Oh, really?” she retorted, “after what you told my…aaah!”
She screamed and clutched her belly.
“Are you all right, madam?” he asked.
“No, I’m bloody not!” she cursed, “I’m…ouch!” she pitched forward and he caught her in his arms. She clutched at him, her fingernails digging into his flesh.
“Sweet heaven!” she cried. “It’s coming! The baby!”
A ripple of fear tore through him, the memory of Isabella vivid in his mind—her swollen body thrashing from side to side in her bed while she screamed in agony, until it stilled—the horribly quiet little bundle which the midwife hastily removed from the room—Isabella’s voice, whispering in his ear, cursing him to reside in hell for murdering her and his child—and finally, her dark, lifeless eyes staring up at him—eyes which had haunted him every night since.
He was not going to have any more lives on his conscience, nor give anyone else cause to accuse him of murder. If the woman in his arms was going to die, let it be in her home, and not his.
“No…” he whispered. “It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.”
She clung to him, her body shaking. “Help me!” she cried.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll take you home. Can you walk?”
She took a step forward, then her body shook once more, and she moaned in pain.
“I can’t move!”
“Then stay here and I’ll fetch a doctor.”
“The nearest physician’s in Penzance—he’ll never get here in time!”
“Your husband, then?”
“He’s not at home.”
“Mrs. Trelawney, forgive me, but I can’t…”
“Please,” she wailed. “You must help me!” She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain and fear, and recognition slid into place.
This was not Fate playing a cruel trick on him. This was his chance to atone for his sins. He had been unable to save Isabella, but he would do all in his power to save this brave little woman in his arms. For the first time in four years, he felt an overwhelming need to help another soul, rather than just himself.
“Place your arms around my neck, Mrs. Trelawney,” he said, “if you would forgive my forwardness.”
The ghost of a smile played on her lips, and he lifted her into his arms.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Her body shuddered again, and she let out a scream, full of pain and fear.
“Hush,” he soothed. “You will be well. I’ll take care of you.”
She nodded, and buried her head in his chest, moaning softly.
He carried her across the yard, praying that he spoke the truth and that he wouldn’t have two more deaths on his conscience by morning.
Chapter Nine
The carriage drew to a halt outside Pengarron. Ross climbed out, then offered his hand to Miss Claybone. She took it with a smile and let him help her out.
Though Ross had missed his wife tonight, Miss Claybone
had proved to be a surprisingly good dance partner. Intelligent, and in possession of a sharp wit, she was the sort of woman who only spoke when she had actually something to say, instead of most ladies who felt the need to fill any silence with inane chatter. It was clear to see why she detested polite society and all its artifice, and why she preferred to avoid single men who viewed a single woman as a means to an end—namely a fat dowry. She was unlikely to find her perfect partner at a society party where she’d be hunted for her fortune, rather than valued for herself.
He glanced up at the drawing room window, but no light shone from within. Alice must have retired already. He smiled at the prospect of curling up against her warm body, ripe and round with his child.
With Miss Claybone on his arm, he approached the door. It opened to reveal the housekeeper, her eyes bright with distress.
“Whatever’s the matter?” he asked.
“It’s the mistress!” she cried.
Alice…
Icy fingers clenched round his stomach.
“What’s happened?” he asked. “Has she been taken ill?”
“No, Mr. Trelawney, sir, she’s gone!”
“Gone where?” Miss Claybone asked.
At that moment, hurried footsteps approached and the cook appeared, together with the head groom.
“Oh, thank the lord!” she cried. “Mistress Alice has gone to Boscarne House!”
“What the devil for?” Ross demanded.
“She was chasing after Miss Amelia’s dog,” the cook said. She gestured toward the groom. “Jacob and I tried to stop her, but you know how determined she is. She told us to remain here in case the little mite came back.”
“And you listened to her?”
“She’s gone out for walks before, sir,” the housekeeper said.
“Not in the middle of the bloody night!”
“She said she’d be back within the hour,” Mrs. Bascomb said. “I saw no harm in it.”
“When was this?”
The cook colored and looked down. “About an hour after you left, sir.”
“But that was almost three hours ago!” Ross cried.
The second carriage drew up beside the first, and Westbury and Stiles climbed out, together with their wives.
“Anything the matter, Trelawney?” Stiles asked. “You look upset.”
“It’s Alice,” Ross said. “She’s taken it upon herself to go traipsing about the moors by herself. And these bloody fools…” He gestured toward the three servants, “…saw fit to let her go.”
“She told us to stay…” Jacob began.
“I don’t bloody care what she said!” Ross roared. “I ought to dismiss the lot of you for this—I trusted you to take care of her!”
“Sorry, sir…”
“Don’t apologize,” he growled. “Fetch me a lantern. I’ll go and look for her myself.”
“Shall I saddle your horse, sir?” Jacob asked.
“It’s a bit late to start doing your job now, isn’t it?” Ross snarled. “Besides, it’ll take too long. I can get there quicker on foot, if I go now.”
“Shall I come with you?” Stiles asked.
Ross shook his head. “No, get the ladies inside. I’ll be quicker alone.”
“Very well,” Stiles said, “Westbury and I can coordinate a search party round Pengarron. Just in case she hasn’t made it…” he hesitated, “…I mean, in case she’s not made it to Boscarne.”
Stiles’s meaning could not have been plainer.
In case she’s not made it to Boscarne alive.
With his friend’s words ringing in his ears, Ross hunched his shoulders and set off into the night, praying that his beloved wife would be found safe and well.
By the time Ross reached Boscarne House, his chest ached from running. He drew in a deep breath and the cold air stabbed at his lungs. He’d picked up a trail of fresh footprints almost as soon as he’d left Pengarron. Too small to be those of a man, they could only be his wife’s—and beside them ran a smaller trail of light, round tracks.
That damned dog! Why couldn’t she have left it?
At the entrance to the estate, the footprints veered toward an outbuilding, but as he moved forward, he caught sight of a second set of footprints. They ran from the outbuilding toward the main house, which loomed up in the night—a dark monolith, presiding over the landscape with an air of malevolence.
Two windows were illuminated—one on the ground floor, the second, higher up, creating the illusion of distorted face. The light flickered on the lower window and a shape passed in front of it.
Was she there?
The shape moved again, and a faint cry echoed from the building.
A voice he knew and loved.
Alice…
He sprang into action and sprinted toward the house.
The front doors were unlocked. Ross pushed them and they yielded with a groan. Curling his hands into fists, he stepped inside, his breath forming a puff of mist in the cold, damp air.
The hallway was dark, but he could make out blurred shapes in the diffused light from the moon. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of decay. A vase stood on a plinth near the main doors. He’d have preferred his sword, but any weapon was better than none. He picked it up, and moved deeper inside the building, turning into a corridor.
A sliver of light stretched across the floor from the room about halfway down the corridor. He made his way toward it, pushed the door open, and froze.
His wife lay on a bed, body still, her face ashen. Her eyes were closed, and his heart withered at the sight.
She was not moving.
Alice…
Footsteps approached from behind—a weighty, determined gait. Ross turned and lifted the vase as a tall, heavily-muscled man, entered the room.
“What have you done to her, you bastard!”
He rushed toward the man and was interrupted by a scream.
“Ross—stop! Leave him alone!”
“Alice?”
He turned to see her struggling to sit.
A large hand clamped round his arm. “Who the devil are you?” a deep voice boomed.
“It’s all right,” Alice said, “he’s not here to harm me.”
“I should bloody well hope not!” Ross said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Ross.” Alice lowered her gaze to the vase in Ross’s hand, then she addressed the stranger. “Edward, this is my husband. I trust you’ll forgive his outburst.”
“Edward?” Ross glared at the man, jealousy flaring inside him. “Who the devil are you, to command such familiarity?”
“He’s the man who saved my life,” Alice said, smiling. “Look.”
She pointed to a box beside the bed. No—not a box, a crib. Swaddled in a soft, pink blanket was a small, perfectly formed little human. A baby—its face still wrinkled from a birthing, with a head of thick, dark hair. As he watched the tiny creature, it yawned and stretched, and a perfect little fist appeared from beneath the blanket. Then the baby pursed its lips and gave a contented little grunt—a gesture which gave him a shock of recognition, for it was exactly the same gesture Amelia had made when she was born.
“Say hello to your daughter, Ross.”
“M-my daughter?” He shook his head. “But your confinement was a month away!”
“Your daughter clearly thought differently,” she said, pride in her expression. “Did I not tell you she’d prove to be a troublesome Trelawney?”
The man in the doorway cleared his throat, then shuffled back, retreating from the room.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Alice said firmly. The man stopped, as if, despite his size, he were a child being scolded by his nanny. Ross smiled to himself. His wife might not admit it, but the Trelawney children had not inherited all their troublesome traits from their father.
“Come here, Edward,” she said. “Let me introduce you to my husband. Ross, there’s no need to remain armed. As you see, I’m quite safe.”
Ross set asi
de the vase and took a look at the fellow. Though he was a physically imposing man and would very likely trounce even Stiles in a fist fight, his face bore a gentle demeanor, with a high brow, soft, brown eyes and a sensitive mouth. His shirt was unbuttoned half to the waist, sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat adorned his brow. He carried a cup of steaming brown liquid, and Ross inhaled the scent of chocolate.
“Edward,” Alice said. “This is my husband, Ross Trelawney. Ross, my love, this is Edward, Mr. Scrimgeour.” She gave Scrimgeour a saucy smile, “…neighbor, savior, midwife and cook—all rolled into the one man.”
Scrimgeour approached the bed, and handed the cup to Alice. “Mrs. Trelawney, I only did what any man would have done.”
She caught his wrist and he stilled.
“No,” she said. “You didn’t.” She glanced at the sleeping child. “You brought about a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”
Scrimgeour looked down, discomfort in his eyes, as if he had no idea how to react to a compliment.
Perhaps he had never experienced compliments.
Or kindness.
Ross approached him, and held out his hand. Scrimgeour’s eyes widened, as if he were trying to figure out what to do with it.
“Permit me to shake your hand, my good man,” Ross said. “It’s woefully inadequate to express my gratitude, but it’ll have to do for the present. I am forever in your debt, sir. And, if my wife has no objection, it would give me great pleasure if you would spend Christmas Day with us, at Pengarron, tomorrow.”
Scrimgeour colored and glanced at Alice. “Your wife—would it be safe to move her?”
“Of course it’s safe!” Alice said. “And Ross is right. I insist on your joining us tomorrow. Nobody should be alone at Christmas, not when there’s good friends to spend it with.”
“Friends?”
“Yes,” Ross said. “From this day on, I would be honored to call you my friend.”
Scrimgeour took Ross’s hand, then looked up, his gaze clear and unashamed. He blinked and a bead of moisture formed in the corners of his eyes.
Then he smiled and nodded.
“The honor is mine.”
Edward clasped Trelawney’s proffered hand. How many years had it been since someone had offered friendship—genuine friendship, without asking for anything in return? Friends had come and gone, abandoning him when the rumors had spread after Isabella’s death. But this man with the dark gray eyes was different. He possessed an air of open honesty, surpassed only by that of his wife, the brave little soul who’d brought her child into the world in Edward’s home.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 69