EPILOGUE
Miss Fadden leaned back contentedly in her cane chair and watched a large red sun sinking slowly down into the blue of the Mediterranean.
Below her, the terraced gardens fell away in ordered beauty to a small curve of white sand. She stretched like an old tabby cat and picked up her knitting. Just a few more rows and it would be time to wake her mistress.
It was paradise, she reflected, this crumbling castle on the Sicilian coast. No one came to call, the few servants were paid well to be discreet, and the happiness of her master and mistress permeated every room.
Then she heard Alice's light step and leaped guiltily to her feet. “The sun is not yet down, Your Grace,” she said. “I thought you would sleep longer.”
“He will soon be here,” said Alice, Eighth Duchess of Haversham, leaning her elbows on the warm balustrade and staring dreamily out over the sea.
Miss Fadden watched her with a doting smile, remembering their flight from the bitter cold of London, the uncertainty as to where to stay, the travel, the inns, the flying over strange towns and villages, and then finally the homecoming to this remote spot.
The sun disappeared into the water with a flash of green and one by one the first stars came out. Miss Fadden knew that the Duke would make his appearance below in the garden and come walking up the steps as he did every night so as not to alarm the servants by appearing suddenly, say, at the dinner table.
“What if he does not come?” whispered Alice suddenly. “What if he does not come?”
“He will come as he has done every night since we arrived here,” said Miss Fadden in a brisk voice.
“Every night is a miracle,” said Alice.
And all at once he was there, at the foot of the steps, smiling up at her and she looked down at him with all her heart in her eyes, holding out her arms as if to welcome him back from a long journey.
Miss Fadden tactfully removed herself to supervise the preparations for dinner. She was always relieved to see them together again but she was a sentimental soul and the sight of their happiness always made her cry.
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The strange disappearance of the pretty French Comtesse caused some speculation in London circles, but by the beginning of the Season, everyone had found more interesting things to talk about.
Lord Harold Webb felt quite himself again. It had been a truly terrible winter. He had started and trembled at every sound. He had shunned the company of Harry Russell, feeling sure that it was that gentleman's black soul which had brought the ghost upon him.
Once more he was fêted and petted by matchmaking mamas. Once more debutantes fluttered their fans and eyelashes at him.
He leaned against a pillar under the musicians’ gallery at Almack's and drew a slow breath of relief. The world had once again righted itself, the sun shone during the day and the flambeaux and candles of the rich blazed to banish the night.
Neil Gow's fiddlers were sawing away at a new waltz tune but for the moment he was content to watch the gaily shifting throng and know again that he was one of the handsomest and most sought-after men at the Assembly.
One of his former flirts, now Mrs. Annabelle Delacey, paused to speak to him as she walked around on her husband's arm.
She was a vivacious redhead with a rather piercing voice.
“Why, tis Harold Webb!” she cried. “My dear man, you look a ghost of your former self. A very ghost! What on earth have you been up to?”
“There are no such things as ghosts!” screamed Webb suddenly, drowning out the noise of the fiddles above his head, drowning out the chatter of voices of the throng.
Mrs. Delacey drew back a pace in alarm.
But Webb went on shouting and shouting, “There are no such things as ghosts!” until they led him away.
“Really,” said Mrs. Delacey, much agitated, to her husband, “What was all that about? How strange to become so exercised. After all, we all know there aren't any ghosts.”
Do we?...
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The Ghost and Lady Alice Page 15