by Amber Benson
The thought troubled William. How would she explain them, one day, to the man she married?
As he hurried down the stairs, distracted by such thoughts, he walked right through Nelson’s ghost, which had appeared before him quite suddenly.
“Horatio!” he said, taken aback. He hated touching the ghosts. It was like being thrust out into the snow stark naked. He shivered as he collected himself, and turned his attention to Nelson’s worried expression.
“It’s getting worse, I’m afraid. Not only in the East End, either. More of the upper class have been infected. Percy Highforth and Lord Charles Derby for certain, and one or two others have taken to their sickbeds, and may also have been cursed.”
William was thunderstruck. The plague had made its way into the House of Lords. Before William could say another word, however, Farris appeared at the bottom of the stairs. As always, he took no more notice of Nelson than he would any other guest in the house.
“Sir, you have a visitor.”
William frowned. “A visitor? Now is not the best time, Farris. As soon as Tamara has rested awhile, we’re to go out to—”
His words were cut short by the arrival of Sophia Winchell at the foot of the stair. Though she had seen the ghosts before, Nelson took her presence as his cue to disappear. William believed it was because he knew she was uneasy around the supernatural, but he worried that it was actually because Horatio didn’t enjoy her presence.
“William?” she called, a moment before she saw him there.
The relief that flooded her face filled him with a lightness he hadn’t felt all day. He began to smile as she started up the stairs, her lady’s maid trailing slightly behind her. Farris stood aside to let the women pass.
“Sophia, what are you doing here?” William asked, the very sight of her renewing his strength and resolve. “Had we made some arrangement that I’ve forgotten, for—”
When she glanced up at him, just two steps below, his words faltered. Her expression was etched in misery.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked quickly.
Sophia practically leaped into William’s arms, pressing her face into the stiff material of his dark coat.
“Oh, William, I’m just so frightened. People are talking, saying horrible things. Word is spreading about a horrible illness. Some are calling it a plague. And there are rumors of other things.”
She looked up at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Darker things.”
William nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s true. And I’m glad that you’ve come.”
“Where else would I go? If evil is afoot, I can’t imagine being anywhere but with you. In your arms. I cannot bear to be alone this night.”
He stroked her dark hair and nodded.
“All right, darling, all right. You’re here now. Safe in this house. No need to worry,” William said. He looked over her shoulder at Farris, who still stood formally at the bottom of the stairs. “Farris, could you please arrange a place for Miss Winchell’s maid to sleep this evening? I’ll show the lady herself to one of the guest rooms.”
Sophia’s maid frowned deeply, not at all pleased with this plan. But William found himself too troubled by Sophia’s fear, and too exhausted from exertions of the past couple of days, to pay much attention to propriety.
For his part, Farris didn’t even flinch. He nodded at William’s request, then gestured for Sophia’s maid to follow him up the stairs.
“I’m sure Elvira must be thinking the worst,” William said quietly.
“She’s not a fool,” Sophia replied. “She has seen enough to know that in sinister times, the one place we might be safe is among the only people in London who have a chance of understanding what is going on, of fighting back the darkness.”
Sophia slipped her arms around him, and held on as though her life depended upon it.
IT WAS A damp night. The air was saturated with moisture, and the pale gray clouds that hung like fairy dust around the quarter-moon threatened to erupt with cold wet drops of rain.
The moderate warmth of the day had given way to a chilling coolness, so that the pedestrians who trod the strip of turf in front of the Drury Theatre on the Strand pulled their dinner jackets and wraps tighter around their elegant shoulders. Breath came in smoky wisps, making it seem as though the ladies and gentlemen—who had only recently left the theater’s confines—had all taken up their cigars and pipes at once.
The man who slipped like a wraith through their midst didn’t notice the chill in the air. He was wearing a thick woolen coat, and his hands were covered in black leather gloves. His thick-soled black crêpe shoes made no echo as he threaded his way through the shivering throng.
Leaving the crowd and turning off the Strand, he went quickly down the street, his heartbeat keeping time with his footfalls. He stayed close to the walls of the buildings that towered over him as he walked, keeping his head down and his eyes on the few paces of road that lay ahead.
He slowed, then came to a stop at a low brick wall. He crossed in one smooth leap, and made his way to the nearest side of the imposing two-story home that sat there like a sleeping giant.
With its graceful lines and decorative columns, the Palladian villa looked much better suited to the more temperate climes of Italy and the Mediterranean. The harsh English weather imposed an air of neglect and gloom upon the stately structure, obscuring its architectural beauty.
The man ignored the building’s merits, instead finding more interest in its entrances and exits. Bypassing the front door, he moved stealthily toward one of the first-floor windows.
The appearance of the two peelers gave the man a shock. He hadn’t been prepared to encounter policemen here. He threw himself quickly into the thick shadows and shrubbery that graced the side of the building, and held his breath as the men passed almost directly in front of him.
Then it must be true, he thought. Lord Derby’s been infected.
Waiting for the two men to pass him and move to the back of the house, he knelt rigid as a statue underneath the safety of an overgrown shrub. When the two men were no longer in his view, the man whispered a quick spell under his breath. A protection spell. He hoped it would work.
Then he made his way to one of the windows at the rear of the house and did another quick spell. Small magic. The best he could do. The glass was gone, and he slipped inside without a sound.
He moved quickly through the house until he found the foyer, which housed the ornate spiral staircase that led to the next floor. He took the stairs slowly, trying to tread softly. At the top, he turned right and opened the first door he came to.
It was a library with a huge collection of books. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out the titles on the hard leather spines, but he could guess at the contents: Shakespeare, Jonson, Keats, Marlowe, Shelley, Byron. Lord Derby was a noted collector of Elizabethan drama and British poetry. His library was the envy of many an English bibliophile.
The man stalked over to a small glass case on a walnut stand that housed the item he truly sought. The little deformed idol sat like a skull, grinning under the glass. Its three eyes stared at the man as he lifted the glass and gingerly picked the stone creature up.
“I’ve got you,” the man whispered under his breath as he pulled a small, dark, cloth bag from his pocket and slipped it over the statue. Holding the bag tightly in his fist, he moved to one of the library windows and began the spell that would grant him his freedom.
“Stop! Thief!” a voice erupted behind him. He turned to see one of the peelers standing in the library doorway, pointing a wooden club at him.
The peeler was tall and probably outweighed him by a good two stone. But did the uniformed fellow know how to fight? Only one way to find out.
Confident in his ability with his fists, he moved toward the brawny policeman, but stopped when he saw his opponent’s partner standing quietly in the shadows of the darkened hallway, holding a dripping candle.
Damn, the man thought
. There was no way he could take on the two of them.
In the moment of his indecision, the peeler who had discovered him lunged and tackled him around the waist. The bag containing the idol slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. The two men landed in a heap on the cold wood.
The peeler made a grab for his head, but the man was too quick for him, slipping easily out of his grasp. He grabbed the peeler’s head and slammed it hard into the floor, likely breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious.
He hurried to his feet even as the second peeler started for him, raising his wooden club as he attacked. This time the man didn’t hesitate. He knocked the club away and drove his fist into the peeler’s stomach.
The policeman staggered back, the wind knocked out of him. It took the thief only a moment to realize his mistake. The tallow candle had fallen from the second peeler’s grasp and rolled over to one of the long velveteen drapes that encased the library window.
Fire licked along the drapes and quickly leaped toward the ceiling.
“Damn!” the thief snarled, looking around wildly to see if there was any way to stave off the fire. But there was nothing he could do, save let it burn. He grabbed the sack containing the idol and made his way through the smoke to the library doorway.
“Get out while you can!” he yelled back to the peelers over the roar of the flames. Then he disappeared into the darkness of the hall, flickering shadows nipping at his heels.
He nearly leaped down the stairs. It was only as he reached the ground floor that he realized his protection spell had dissipated. He was no real sorcerer, and didn’t know how this had happened—possibly something to do with the fire, or the fighting. But he could feel the idol’s magic working on his exposed flesh, slowly burrowing into his skin.
Immediately he tried to reconjure the protection spell, but knew instinctively that it was too late. He was as good as dead. He had been in close proximity to the dark idol, unprotected, and now, rather than being its savior, he was its latest victim.
William Swift’s mind was racing as he led Sophia up the stairs to the second floor of Ludlow House. Several times he glanced down at her, to find her gazing at him with a weighty sense of expectation that was quite unlike her.
William raised the lantern he carried, dispelling the gloom at the top of the stairs, and reached back to take her by the hand. Sophia smiled wanly, eyes searching his. He turned away quickly, and wondered why he had done so. With her hand in his, he continued down the long second-floor corridor, and turned to the right into another hall that led into the eastern wing of Ludlow House. There was a library along this hall, as well as a music room that had gathered dust ever since his mother’s death, so very long ago. And there were several guest rooms that in recent times had housed only the ghosts.
The feel of her hand in his brought a warmth to his heart, a spark of light in the shadow that had fallen over his mind of late. Despite her contentious relationship with Tamara, William saw in Sophia a strength and confidence that he admired greatly. She was intelligent and straightforward, beautiful and graceful. It bewildered him that the two women in his life could not see how much they had in common, and he hoped that one day that realization would make them, if not friends, at least allies.
Yet he also required certain things of Sophia. First among them was that she understand that while he would give her all of his heart, he could not abandon his other responsibilities simply to assuage her fears. He would comfort her as best he could, but she must have courage as well.
They had walked in contemplative silence, then he released her hand so that he could open the door to the bedchamber. He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Holding the lamp high, he preceded her into the room.
“Oh,” he said instantly, brow furrowing, “it’s a bit musty in here, isn’t it? Stuffy and warm.”
He set the lamp down on the dresser, and went immediately to open a window, sliding it up several inches. A cool breeze swept in. “If you get too cold, you can always close it, but it’ll do a world of good to get some fresh air into this room. You’ll forgive me, I hope. We haven’t been able to keep the house properly staffed since grandfather died. And we weren’t expecting company.”
As he said this last he turned to face Sophia and found her still standing just inside the room, hugging herself and studying him. The plea that had been in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quizzical expression.
“You don’t want me here,” she said. Her voice was flat.
William faltered. He felt the chilly air flow around him, and the vastness of the house seemed to represent a distance that separated him from his beloved.
“What do you mean?” He tried to sound reassuring, but it came out false, even to him. “That’s ridiculous. I always want you with me. Had I my own way, you would never leave my side.
“It’s only that—”
He took a deep breath, and found himself struggling to find the words to continue. How could he explain the things that weighed on him, without adding to her hurt? How best to make her understand?
“Oh, no, William,” Sophia said, showing such sadness that it pressed upon his spirit.
“What is it, my darling?”
She hugged herself more tightly. “I can read your face, Mr. Swift. I know you. You are trying to find a way to be diplomatic, to hide from me your true feelings, or to soften them in some way that will make them seem less harsh.”
He had nothing to say, for that was precisely what he had been doing.
Sophia waited a moment for his answer, then shuddered with a sigh. “If there is any hope for a future between us, you must dispense with such behaviors. There must be no secrets, no hidden agendas, no sweet lies that cause us to be dishonest with each other.”
The lamplight flickered across the canopied bed, and the mirror above the dresser gleamed with its illumination. The shadows in the corners seemed to thirst for that light. Outside the open door, the corridor was dark, but the gloom did not trouble William. This had been his home for his entire life. He knew every creak and corner. They were safe here.
And suddenly he understood why Sophia did not want to be at her home. When she had heard the rumors of the spread of the plague, she had become frightened indeed, and she knew as well as William himself that there was true evil in the world. It was only logical that if something evil had come to London, she would want to be here, with the very people meant to protect all of England from that evil.
But there was more to it than that, William realized. Something more profound. At the Winchell estate, there were only servants. Sophia had no family at home. William was the closest thing to family that she had.
No secrets, she had said.
“Of course, my darling—”
“And,” she interrupted, “I hope we never again stand alone in a bedchamber with such a gulf separating us.”
A soft smile came to his lips, and he felt a kind of relief washing through him, as though a dam had broken. He nodded as he strode toward her.
“I share that hope with all my heart.”
Sophia gnawed her lower lip in a way that was both charming and alluring, but also silently heartbreaking. She wasn’t as strong as she liked the world to believe. When William reached for her hands, she threw her arms around him and embraced him with such vigor that all the breath was squeezed from his lungs.
Softly he touched her hair, and then bent to kiss her forehead.
“I am glad that you came. Even with your servants there, you are alone in your house. There is no family there, no one to hold you or tell you that all will be well.”
He clasped her forearms and gently moved her back a pace, so that he could look directly into her eyes . . . so that she could see how serious he was.
“One day soon, I hope that you will join me here at Ludlow House, as my bride. And yet I confess that even that joy fills me with a certain trepidation. You know the duties Tamara and I have inherited. They place us—and all of tho
se around us—in constant peril. Even within our own walls there are—”
“I can take care of myself, William. I am perfectly capable,” she said crisply. The Sophia he knew and loved was coming again to the fore.
“Yes,” he said, tightening his grip upon her wrists. “You are a formidable woman. But you must understand me. Though you may feel safer in this house, here in my presence, that may be only an illusion. Much of the world is illusion, Sophia, and willingly surrendering to such a pleasant mirage can be dangerous.”
She pulled one hand loose and reached up to caress his face, running her fingers lightly across his cheek and touching his lips to silence him.
“You fear for me,” Sophia said, her eyes crinkling now with affection. She paused a moment, and nodded as though to herself. “You worry that with all the troubles clamoring for your attention, both natural and supernatural, you will not be able to protect me.”
William nodded.
Sophia let her hand drop to his shoulder, and pulled the other one free, then moved closer, pushing her body against his, cleaving to him, molding herself to him in a way that was unspeakably delicious. She gazed up at him, yet there was none of the playfulness that had accompanied earlier attempts to tease or seduce him.
She wore a mask of propriety in public, and beneath that William had seen a more playful persona, of the temptress. This was an entirely new face, and he felt as if it was the most truthful.
“You will do all that you can, William,” she said, her voice low, a grave sincerity there and in her eyes. “As you have done thus far. My life has been in your hands before, and I have survived. From the time I discovered the life that you and your sister lead, I knew that there was danger involved—that I would find myself in the presence of evil. Something of that, I confess, is enticing. You and Tamara are involved in a grand conflict, and the nobility of it would have captured my heart, even if the boy who gave me my first dance had not already done so years ago.”