“‘Dear G,” she read, “‘Yes, I still call you dear, despite learning how slight your esteem is for me.’“
“Uh-oh, a jilted lover.” Mark made a face. “This is bound to get melodramatic.”
She fired a frown at him but continued reading. “‘I know you returned from Baltimore a good week ago, and I have waited each night for you to come.’“
Peculiar, the ghost thought. Not only did this poor chap share his first initial, he too had been to Baltimore. Geoff had passed many happy visits in the city with a cohort who had moved there from Philadelphia.
“‘But tonight when I saw you ride by with Miss Sullivan, I finally realized you would never keep your promise.’“
Geoff started. A Miss Sullivan--Molly Sullivan--had been a
favorite consort of his at one time, until she’d left Falls Borough to “move up” to the demimonde of New York City. Indeed, he had driven down this very street with the little trollop on many occasions. In fact--
His heart caught in his throat. Could this be the house where--yes, it was!
He’d avoided the place for so long he hadn’t recognized it, but now he realized that a lover of his had once lived here.
“Mariah,” he whispered. He’d spent years trying to forget her, but to this day there were times when she popped into his mind. She was a farmer’s daughter, an innocent little creature, rather too naive for his tastes. But during one dull summer he had spent several evenings in her arms...
Damnation. He whirled around, taking in the room again. He had enjoyed a tryst in here--with Mariah.
And the letter was written to him.
“Did you feel a draft just then?” Lara asked. Without benefit of turning her head she flicked her gaze from side to side.
The sight of the fireplace primed Geoff’s memory. They had made love in front of the hearth. Mariah had been beautiful--though not his usual ilk, for he’d typically preferred full-figured, experienced women. She’d been a wisp of a thing and
completely new to the arts of love. Surprisingly, she had caught on quickly. Hot images of their lovemaking seared him with longing for the days when he could fulfill his passions.
“It’s just the storm,” Mark said. “Read on.”
“I can’t.” Lara let her arm drop to her side, holding the letter against her thigh. “This is too scary. She goes on to say he’ll be happy about her being ‘gone.’ She must have committed suicide.”
Suicide? Geoff recoiled. The notion appalled him so much he nearly felt a physical sensation of cold.
“You don’t know that. Maybe she ran away.” Mark held out his hand, palm up. “Here. Let me read the rest.”
Thunder reverberated outside.
Lara clapped her hand over her breastbone. “All right, but if the letter gets too upsetting, don’t read it out loud to me. If the woman killed herself here in this room, I don’t want to know.”
Geoff shuddered. Surely not Mariah, not that ingenuous young girl. He looked at the fireplace and imagined the spot as it had been, filled with leaping flames and radiant warmth from glowing embers. Suddenly Mariah’s face appeared in the empty hearth, not peach-tinged as it had been when he’d know her but gaunt and bloodless, like that of a corpse.
She fixed her gaze on him, her focus relentless, her irises black and hard like coal. He recalled that in life she’d had golden eyes, the color of topaz. Her lips wavered, as if she were trying to speak.
He froze, scarcely able to believe what he saw. Had he finally, after a hundred years, encountered another soul who wanted to communicate with him?
After the longest pause he’d ever endured, Mariah croaked, “Geoffrey...I carried...your child.”
He gaped, speechless.
The phantom faded, and the hearth once again stood empty and dark. He glanced at the mortals to see if they had witnessed the apparition. The two of them stood as they had before, clearly undisturbed.
He gulped. His hands trembled at his sides. He had never before seen a ghost, and being one himself didn’t make the experience any less frightening. Having a tortured soul tell you she had carried your child added another upsetting dimension to the episode. He’d had no idea he’d gotten the chit with child. To his knowledge, the only progeny he had ever produced were the disappointing pair of lummoxes his wife Deborah had presented to him.
“‘Those beautiful verses you write are nothing but empty
words, aren’t they, my love?’“ Mark laughed and looked up from the letter. “So the guy was a poet, like my late, great forefather. From what this letter implies, he was probably full of the same sound and fury, too.”
Geoff bristled. Speaking of his descendants, the line ended with this blathering fool. This was what one got for yielding to the wishes of one’s family and marrying where one’s parents recommended. Deborah, whom his mother and father had extolled for her fine stock, had given him the heirs they wanted: two talentless dullards who’d wasted their lives on nothing more interesting than overseeing fields and livestock--and not even excelling at that. Neither had a single iota of poetry in his being.
“Maybe it is your ancestor,” Lara said. “The man’s first initial is G. Did Geoffrey Vereker live in this area?”
Mark snorted. “I’m sure that in the last century or so there have been plenty of local residents with the initial G who dabbled in poetry.”
“But I found a volume of his verses here in this house.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Maybe it belonged to the woman who wrote that letter.”
“Is the book inscribed to anyone?”
“No, I think I would have noticed that. I don’t even remember seeing a bookplate inside the cover. I’ll have to take a better look, in case I’ve missed something.”
He shook his head. “I really doubt there’s any connection between my ancestor and this letter.”
The ghost turned away, dismayed by the fellow’s lack of insight. To own up to the truth, insight was not a dominant trait among his descendants. Some of the others had shown they took after Geoff in other areas--but with Lara at stake, he supposed he was lucky Mark was no lady’s man.
Looking back at the fireplace, he wondered how the child Mariah had carried might have turned out. She’d said “carried,” not “bore,” so he guessed the babe must not have come to term. If he had chosen another path in life--perhaps married for a reason other than convenience--he might have taken a greater interest in his children.
A rumble of thunder broke him from this fanciful line of thought. In truth, what other reason than convenience was there to marry? He didn’t really believe in love--not the sort people married for, in any case. When he had spoken of love in his poetry, he’d meant something more like passion, an emotion overpowering but fleeting. He suffered no delusion that desire of that order could last a lifetime.
“Listen to this.” Mark grinned. “She’s written him a poem. She says ‘Be assured the sentiment is genuine.’“
“Oh, Mark.” Lara shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know if you should read any further, especially if you’re going to make fun of what she wrote. That poor woman’s heart was torn apart. There’s nothing funny about her pain.”
He pressed his lips together. “I know. I’m only trying to help you keep a healthy perspective about this. Her story is sad, but it happened generations ago. By now, everyone involved is dead. All of their pain is over.”
Geoff felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Fool, he admonished himself.
“I suppose so.” Lara looked down at the floor.
“Then do you want to hear more?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, not now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay. I’ll just skim through the rest myself. There’s not much of it left.”
Geoff felt nearly as reluctant as Lara to learn what else his late lover had to say, but he thought he owed it to Mariah. Floating over behind the mortal, he read over his shoulder:
As you read these lines coming fr
om the grave...
Damnation, he thought. She did kill herself--or did she? Her remains weren’t here with the letter.
Despair of your own eternal rest to save.
His heart leapt into his throat. What was this about his eternal rest? Did Mariah know something about his ultimate fate?
Leaning closer to Mark, he read on:
Until you advance a love to stand in place
Of the love you once had but chose to debase.
At that point the letter ended with several lines of prose, but the words before Geoff’s eyes blurred. While his descendant finished reading in silence, the truth seeped into the ghost’s consciousness like a slow poison. The pounding of rain against the house grew louder as he began to comprehend the implications. When they hit him full force, he felt as though he had been cold-cocked.
She cursed me, he thought.
Great God, Mariah was the cause of all of this! The little witch had sentenced him to this purgatory.
Lara gasped. “The chill is back.”
But Geoff swore that he felt heat. Though normally he no longer experienced bodily sensations, hot fury rose at the nape of his neck, slowly swelling to his ears. The burning spread around, up and down his being, filling him with rage like he’d never known before. This hell, this unending abyss of nothingness, was all that woman’s doing.
“Mark.” Lara’s eyes were huge, her face white. She hugged her body, her teeth chattering.
Mark stepped up to her and put his free arm around her, the letter still in his other hand. His jaw taut, he darted looks around the room. His gaze cut blindly through Geoff.
Crazed with impotent wrath, the ghost let his head fall back. He felt as if he could explode. The ceiling mocked him, like a barrier between him and the heavens. But though he might have been obstructed from eternal rest by fate, he knew he had no material barriers.
He glared at the plaster and rocketed into the ceiling, blasting through the house’s three other levels. His form soared up into the rain and pierced the black and swirling thunderclouds. Electricity crackled and sparked all around him.
The pure, unchecked energy suited his mood. He slowed his ascent and slashed his arms out through the dancing ions. Brilliant lightning flared with a deafening crash that roared in all directions around him.
“Mariah!” he howled.
Heartless wench! How could she have done this to him?
Chapter 8
Thunder exploded outside, and Mark tightened his hold around Lara’s shoulders, the letter still in his free hand. The lamps flickered and died, and the room went black. She yelped and buried her face against his chest, clinging to his waist.
After the initial fright, she loosened her hold but still didn’t let go. Her body felt small and pliant, her breasts warm and soft against his abdomen.
“Just what we needed,” she said, her breath coming quickly. “The electricity’s gone out.”
“The flashlight’s on the floor, not far from our feet.” In a clumsy attempt to soothe her without getting too familiar, he patted her back. His own heart was probably pounding in her ear, but at least that terrifying coldness had tapered off. He’d never felt a draft like that before--though, of course, there must have been some rational explanation for it. The violence of the storm had played tricks on their minds. “Let me stoop down and I’ll get it.”
“Okay, but don’t let go of me.” She clutched at his sides. “I’ll bend down with you.”
“That doesn’t sound easy to do.”
A glint of lightning streaked through the opening to the studio. He glimpsed her face, completely white in the thin, cold light. The flash extinguished with a clap of thunder. He couldn’t see her anymore, but her expression of fright stayed sharp in his mind.
“That wasn’t as close as the last one,” he said with more certainty than he felt. “Take my hand so I can reach the floor.”
Holding him around the waist with one arm, she used the other hand to feel her way down his shoulder and arm. When she slipped her fingers into his, they felt slim and cool. She clutched his hand tightly as if to make sure he couldn’t get away. Only then did she let go of his waist.
As she moved apart from him, cool air fanned his chest. With the dark concealing her, he felt hyper-aware of the rift between them. Grasping her hand, he asked, “Can you take the letter from me? I don’t want to crush it by stuffing it into a pocket.”
Her body went still. After a pause she said, “Just throw it back on the floor.”
“I’d really like to look at it again.”
“Then put it in your pocket. I don’t want to take it.”
He couldn’t really blame her for her uneasiness. The note had been disturbing, and the way the storm had surged as he’d finished reading added drama to the words. With lightning crashing around them and that nasty cold draft, who wouldn’t have been freaked out?
Refolding the paper as carefully as possible with one hand, he slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. He squatted and fumbled around the dusty floor boards. His hand struck something warm and soft--alive!
“Oh!” Lara yanked her bare foot out from under his hold.
“Oops.” A short laugh slipped out of him. If she weren’t so frightened, the scene really would have been comical.
Another bolt of lightning gave him a glimpse of the flashlight. As darkness flooded the floor again, he lunged for the grip, inadvertently pulling on her arm.
“Ow!” Regardless of her apparent pain, she kept a firm hold on his fingers.
His free hand landed on the flashlight. “I’ve got it. Sorry about that.”
“Never mind. Just turn on the light.”
He flicked on the switch and pointed the beam toward the couch stuffed into the exit. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. You go first.”
“Okay, but whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand.” She clambered over the side of the couch, somewhat awkwardly with only one arm free to support herself. Kneeling on the cushions, she waited for him to join her, unable to move farther without letting go.
With her clutching his one hand and the flashlight in his other, he wasn’t sure he could make it out of the room at all. After studying the problem for a moment he sat on the arm of the couch, swinging one leg over, then the other.
A crack of thunder made Lara jump and yank on him unexpectedly. He lost his balance and slid down the back cushions, flailing to try to grab the bookcase. The flashlight fell out of his hand and he dropped on top of her.
Luckily the light landed beside them on the couch, still on.
“Are you all right?” he asked. They had settled into a surprisingly cozy position, side by side along the length of the cushions. Her body felt warm and slender against his. He felt an urge to pull her into his arms--ridiculous, when she was so wrong for him. He’d been stupid enough to kiss her tonight; he wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
“Yeah.” Only inches away from him, she looked into his eyes. “Sorry for jumping like that. The lightning scared me.”
Their nearness felt inescapably intimate. He glanced at her lips, longing to taste them again, but he resisted. Lara and he could never make a relationship work. Their outlooks clashed on too many important issues.
He forced himself to look into her eyes. “That’s understandable.”
His words sounded formal and detached to his own ears. She watched him, as if she expected something more. He felt sure she could tell he wanted her, the same way he knew she returned the feeling. But to give into temptation would only make it more difficult to part later--something they’d inevitably have to do.
Cutting off their shared stare, he clenched his jaw and reached for the flashlight. He never should have kissed her. The kiss had already complicated things between them. At the moment he’d succumbed to the craving hoping to get it out of his system--but having a taste of her mouth had only made him want her more.
“Ouch. There’s a spring digging into my hip.” She shifted s
lightly and her pelvis pressed into him. His groin tightened in an instant.
He jerked away and pulled himself up on his knees, hoping he’d moved before she had time to notice his arousal. Holding
onto the back of the couch so only the lower half of their legs touched, he said, “Let’s move into the studio.”
“I thought I was the timid one,” she muttered. She untangled her legs from his and pulled away. Snatching the flashlight from him, she climbed over the far end of the couch. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere. I’ll go look for them.”
She vanished around the bookcase, taking the light with her.
Left alone in the dark, he dropped back down on the cushions. If her views weren’t so different from his, he knew he would have fallen for her hard and fast. What was wrong with him that he always seemed to want the exact woman he shouldn’t? His attraction to Lara was the strongest he’d felt in as long as he could remember. Even the awareness of lying on her couch made him want to linger there.
He spread his arm out over the spot she’d vacated. The cushions still felt warm from her body. As he rolled onto her side, a flash of lightning gave him a glimpse into the secret room. From his position he could see only half of the fireplace, but the flickering conjured up images of how the hearth would have looked lit up with flames.
The glare died, but in his mind he pictured the room as it once may have been--cozy, intimate, the perfect spot for trysting lovers. He wondered if “M” and “G” had used it for that purpose. Maybe that was why “M” had chosen to leave the letter there.
The letter. He patted his back pocket and felt the edge of the paper sticking out. Funny...he’d almost expected it to have disappeared, the whole experience to have been imagined.
“Mark?” Lara’s voice sounded shaky and far away.
As he looked back into the studio, a flickering light appeared in the library.
“Just a second.” He scrambled to turn around and climb over the arm of the couch. When he stepped past the bookcase, he saw her bending over the end table, lighting the last of three fat candles that sat on the scratched surface. “What is it?”
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