"No, I haven't seen her again. I'm telling you, something belligerent and invisible pushed me to the floor last night. And I have a witness, okay?” He didn't much appreciate Nigel's attitude that he was imagining things.
"Ah yes. Mr. Montgomery. I wanted to talk to you about him as well, actually,” the solicitor said delicately.
"What about him?” Ryan put his mug down and put his hands on hips.
The older man frowned a little. “Am I to expect to see him here all the time?"
"As often as he wants to be here, yeah. He's my friend. And he's been awesome. He's been cooking for me, and driving me around. Why should you care who I have staying here?” He wasn't sure why he was feeling defensive.
"Well.” The solicitor seemed loathe to be blunt. “People are quite concerned with appearances in this country, and it might look as if...” The man trailed off, clearly pained.
Ryan frowned. “Well, James doesn't care how it looks, and neither do I. And actually, if you must know, I am gay and I'm pretty sure he's not. I mean, I haven't really told anyone that here, but ... Well, it's no one's business, but I thought I'd tell you. James knows, too."
Nigel's mouth dropped open, and he seemed to be struck speechless. “I, well. My Lord, that is of course your business and I would never presume to comment."
Ryan sighed. “You can say whatever you want, but it won't change the fact.” He went around to sit at the desk. “I didn't mean for this to be a contentious thing, Nigel. Where I come from there's nothing wrong with just. Being honest.” He shrugged his shoulders.
The solicitor seemed to be searching for something to say. “My Lord. I am just concerned for your well-being, and that of the estate. Forgive my intrusion."
"It's okay. It's just...” He glanced towards the open door of the drawing room, but he was sure James was still upstairs. “If James wasn't here, I'd be so lonely. And I didn't mean to get pissy with you, but, well...” He lowered his voice a little. “I would hate for anyone to think badly of him. I kinda like him.” He nibbled on his bottom lip. “But that's between you and me, okay?"
The solicitor clearly didn't know what to say, and seemed uncomfortable. “Of course, my lord,” he stammered. “I would never break a confidence."
Just then, James knocked at the door loudly. “Anyone home?” he called out.
Ryan looked up and smiled at him. “Hey. I was just about to ask Nigel what we can do about the power going out,” he said, which he was, sort of.
James nodded. “Yeah, that was kinda weird. It blew for no reason. You should get someone out here to check it, Nigel.” He grinned at Ryan. “You hungry, Ryan? We've got bagels."
"Ooh, they have bagels in this country? Rad.” He stood and started towards the door. “You want a bagel, Nigel?” He kind of liked the way James insinuated himself, like it was his place, too.
"Er ... no thank you.” The solicitor looked from James to Ryan. “I shall contact the local electrician to come and check it immediately,” he assured Ryan. “Perhaps you should have your meal, then we can discuss more business. I can work in here and make some calls."
"Rad,” said James, grabbing Ryan's arm and pulling him out of the room.
Ryan giggled a little and waved at Nigel. “We'll be back.” He followed James into the kitchen and they feasted on the proffered baked goods. When they were done eating, Ryan returned to the drawing room to discuss servants with Nigel, and James spent a little time with his pet project, the car.
All too soon it was time for James to leave, though he promised to return that evening.
By the time Nigel left they'd reviewed applications from at least twenty different people for various jobs around the castle, as well as discussing more financial matters, and Ryan's head was spinning. It didn't even occur to him until the proper solicitor drove away that he was alone in the castle for the very first time. He watched the car's brake lights disappear in the fading light. It wouldn't be dark out for hours yet, which was a little freaky to Ryan, too, but he was inside, so it didn't matter that much.
He went to the kitchen and reheated some of the food that James had made, then returned to the drawing room. He turned on the television just for some background noise, then crossed the room to the desk. He'd noticed a volume about the family history, and he thought he'd read it for a little while. James wouldn't be back until much later, so he had some time to kill.
He called his mom, and spoke to his stepdad and brother for a little while, then settled down with a cup of tea and the book. He skimmed through the pages, looking for anything interesting to pop out at him. The book seemed to want to open to a specific section, as if it had been looked at many times before, but the binding didn't seem to be any more worn in at any one spot.
For some reason, he just felt like trying something out. He laid the book open on the desk to another section. It was still for a moment, then the pages slid to the other section. He turned the book to a part before that, and rested a pen against the open leaves to hold it open there. After a moment, the pen rolled off and the pages again parted to the other spot.
He glanced up at the ceiling. “You want me to read this page, I assume?” he said to no one in particular. Then he shook his head. Nigel was right. It was foolishness. There were no ghosts.
The section was about Maximillian Chester, the fourteenth Earl of Elgin. Apparently, he'd had an unprecedented eight children. Every other Earl up to that point had only fathered one or at most two children, if a daughter had been born first. Ryan frowned at the sexist implications of that, but he read on. One by one, every child died, either in infancy or childhood, until finally only one son remained to become the fifteenth Earl of Elgin.
Just at that moment, a flash of lightning outside the window illuminated a portrait on the wall for about three seconds, long enough for Ryan to notice. He got up and strolled over to the portrait beside the door. It was none other than the fourteenth Earl. His eyes widened. It was a creepy coincidence, nothing more. He wished he knew where to find the portrait of the fifteenth Earl. The fourteenth was a dour man, on the portly side, unlike the other portraits he'd seen, which were all of men who seemed quite slender. He had a thick moustache and a frown on his face. Who would frown when having their portrait painted?
"You look like a cranky old bastard,” he said aloud. A split second later, the television flickered and the picture turned to very loud snow. “What the hell?” he muttered, walking around the couch to sit and play with the remote. He got it back on easily enough, but it was just odd. He had that creepy sensation of being watched.
* * * *
James was only an hour into his shift when she walked in. The reporter, Portia something-or-other. He was washing a few glasses and the pub was fairly quiet at this pre-dinnertime. Within an hour, people would come in for a quick pint on the way home from work.
Portia stood in the doorway, looking around as if the place smelled bad. She seemed to spot James and made a beeline for the bar. James sighed and tried to avoid her eye, but she was clearly here to talk to him.
"Mr. Montgomery?” she said, as if unsure.
James set the clean glass down and smiled insincerely at her. “Yes, that's me. What can I get you?"
The reporter's nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly, but James caught it. He'd never seen her in here, and she obviously thought herself above public rooms. But then she said, “Do you have any white wine?"
"Yes, of course,” James replied. “Coming right up.” He busied himself finding the appropriate glass for white wine, then opened the bottle. He filled the glass and set it in front of Portia.
"Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” she smiled, settling herself carefully on a barstool. She looked like she didn't belong there. She looked directly into James’ eyes and added, “May I call you James?"
"Of course,” he said neutrally, and he made as if to move off and do something else.
"James!” she called out a bit shrilly. “If you had just a moment to tak
e from your duties...” She smiled in what she must have thought was charming manner. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."
James affected surprise. “Me?” he said incredulously. “Whatever would you want to ask me about?” Reluctantly, he moved back down toward her.
Portia leaned forward conspiratorially. “Why, the new Earl of course! You seem to be quite, er, chummy with him, and I'm sure everyone wants to know all about him!"
James’ eyebrows rose. “What could I possibly know about him that your readers would find even remotely interesting? How he takes his tea or something?"
The reporter frowned. “Come on, dear, you must have something more interesting to share than that,” she wheedled.
James shrugged. “Not really. If there's something you want to know, you should ask Ryan. If he wants to tell you, he will. If not...” He shrugged again. “I guess it's none of your business.” He glanced around; the bar was starting to fill up a little, and they were drawing an audience.
Portia clearly saw her opportunity slipping away, and she called out a little too loudly, “How about the rumors that the castle is haunted?"
The bar silenced immediately, and James couldn't school his expression quickly enough. He tried, though. “I don't believe in ghosts."
But the reporter knew how to read people. She'd seen weakness, and she pounced. “But the stories have been around for so long. Surely there must be some truth to them. You've stayed in the castle. Did you see anything abnormal?"
"Oh, it's haunted all right.” A wizened old man who had taken a seat at the other end of the bar spoke up. “I used to work up at the castle in my younger days. When the last Earl were still a young man. I was a footman. And I saw them ghosts. There's at least three of them up there, all batty as bedbugs."
Portia's eyes lit up and she moved down the bar toward the old man. “Three ghosts, you say?” she all but purred. “I'd never heard that before..."
James rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help listening.
"Oh, aye. At least two of the former Earls walk the castle, wreaking havoc on the current residents, and as the tale goes, one of the ghosts is a former countess. I'm surprised you ain't heard about it already, Miss Portia.” The man took a deep drink from his pint. “One spirit is stern, one is mischievous, and one is heartbroken. It's been that way for generations, and they've never found their rest. The old Earl's father even brought in an exorcist, but it didn't help.” He spoke with authority, like one who believed without question that what he was saying was the truth.
Some of the older denizens of the pub nodded in agreement, James noticed as he looked around.
Portia looked over at James. “James, love, get Mr. Grubb a pint, on me of course,” she said, settling on the stool next to him. Her former distaste of the place seemed to have evaporated in the face of juicy gossip. She turned back to the old man, giving him her complete attention and a winning smile. “Do go on, sir. I'm ever so interested."
James poured the man a pint of his favorite ale and set it in front of him. He lingered close, wanting to hear more.
Elias Grubb gave Portia a toothless grin. “Thank ye, miss. Very kind. There's not a lot more known, unfortunately. I only seen one of ‘em, and it were only for a second. The wee lad, rest his soul, used tae tell stories about them."
"There's a lady ghost?” Portia urged, sensing a romantic story. “But why was she heartbroken? Did you see her?"
"Nae, I dinna see her, but he said she used tae sit with him in the nursery when he were a little boy. She loved children, she said. She wanted a lot of them an’ only ‘ad one.” He smirked and took another deep drink. “I expect there were a lot o’ Countesses ‘ad the same complaint.” A few other older men around the pub chuckled at his comment.
James raised an eyebrow, sensing something more, and apparently so did the reporter. “What do you mean, Mr. Grubb? Surely they were happy in such a lovely home,” Portia said curiously.
"Well...” Grubb lowered his voice. “We don't like tae cast no aspersions on the Earls, you know. They might be an odd lot, but they're our odd lot. Still, there's an awful lot of ‘em said to be light in the loafers, if yeh know what I mean,” he said, giving her a conspiratorial wink.
Portia looked blankly at the old man. She obviously had no clue what he was getting at, but James did. He snickered a little and turned away to pour a pint.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” the reporter said a little frostily, as if unsure if she was being mocked.
Grubb looked at her like she was soft in the head. “Oh, I guess you English girls would say they're all poufs,” he jeered, insulting her much more than the Earls of Elgin.
Portia managed to look offended and blush at the same time. “Well, if you're going to be rude about it, I won't bother,” she said, frowning.
James smirked until she looked back at him. Suddenly she was looking at him speculatively. “I don't suppose you know anything about all that,” she said, looking a bit disgusted.
"Nope,” he said, backing away quickly to serve another patron.
Portia made a face and dropped a few coins onto the bar, and got up to leave.
James watched her go.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Five
James let himself into the castle; Ryan had given him a key before he left. He closed and locked the door behind him, and made his way down the hallway.
The door stood ajar, and a slice of warm flickering light, no doubt from the fireplace, cut across the hallway. He eased inside and was about to call out when he spotted Ryan on the couch, fast asleep. He smiled and made his way over to the smaller man. He stood and looked at Ryan for a long moment. He didn't know whether to wake him.
He didn't have to ponder it too long, because Ryan stirred. He looked up at James and smiled, stretching lazily. “Hi,” he said, his voice a little groggy. “How was work?” It was so wonderfully familiar, like it was all meant to be this way. He patted the couch next to him, beckoning James to sit.
James sat down, smiling. “It was interesting,” he said. “That reporter came in and started asking me questions."
"Wow. Tenacious, huh? What did she ask you?” He was surprised. He thought he'd told her pretty much all she could possibly want to know, even though he'd carefully skirted certain issues until he knew how everyone was going to take them.
"She wanted more juicy details about you,” he said, shrugging. “I didn't let her get that far. Then she asked about the ghosts."
The ghosts. They were on Ryan's mind. “I think one of them was hanging around this evening, actually. Nigel thinks I'm crazy.” He shrugged. “Did she know anything about them?"
"No, just rumors.” James hesitated. “But there was an old guy in there, he's been coming in as long as I've been there. He knew a few things."
Ryan sat up, hungry for information. “Yeah? Like what sort of things?"
James turned to face Ryan. “There are apparently three ghosts,” he began. “I think he said, one stern, one mischievous, one heartbroken. The heartbroken one was a countess."
"Wow, really? I don't think I've run into her. I think I just got the stern one so far, unless the mischievous one tripped the breaker last night.” He laughed a little. “We should try to contact them.” He watched James’ expression carefully, wondering if he was going to tell Ryan he was nuts any minute.
"Wait. You said one of them was hanging around this evening? What happened? Are you okay?"
"Oh it was nothing, really. It could have been my imagination, but this book kept opening to his page and then lightning flashed on his portrait.” He pointed to the picture hanging beside the door. “...and then the TV went out. That was it, really. Except it was kinda cold. I'm fine, really. It was spooky, but not really bad. Not like last night.” Ryan felt comforted by the worry in James’ voice.
"Whose portrait?” James asked, looking around.
Ryan stood gracefully and walked ove
r to the portrait. “This one.” He read the words beneath it. “Maximillian.” He tipped his head back again, bracing his hands on his hips. “He looks mean, don't you think? Like, really strict or something. He had a whole bunch of kids, and all of them but one died."
James followed Ryan and stood beside him, regarding the portrait. “I guess that would make anyone look unhappy,” he ventured. “But yeah. He doesn't look like a nice guy.” He stared at the man's painting. “You don't think that he's the one..."
"Well, it was his page in the book that kept opening.” He frowned a little. “Hey! We should try to contact him!” he suggested with a grin.
James looked at Ryan and raised an eyebrow. “Contact him how? You think he's got a cell phone on the other side? E-mail maybe?"
"No, we could make a ouija board! I did it with my gramma once when I was a kid.” He walked over to the desk and got out some paper and a pen. “Can you see if you can find a small glass? Like a juice glass or a shot glass or something?” He started tearing the paper into small squares, excited at the prospect.
"A ouija board?” James repeated. “You're kidding."
Ryan looked up at him. “Are you scared?” He put the papers down. “If you're scared, we don't have to.” Somehow, he suspected James would agree.
"No, not scared. Just...” He shook his head. “If you want to, we'll try it. It's just...” he shrugged. “So cheesy, you know?"
"Aw, well, it probably won't work anyway. What's the harm?” He started writing on the scraps of paper, one letter per piece, each number from zero to nine, and finally yes and no.
James watched Ryan for a long moment and said, “Why not? I think I saw a few shot glasses somewhere in the kitchen. Be right back.” He walked quickly to the kitchen and found two different types, in case one wasn't right, and brought them back to Ryan.
Ryan had cleared everything off of the low coffee table in front of the television. He arranged all the squares of paper around the edge and sat cross-legged in front of it. He looked up as James came back into the room. “Ready?” he asked.
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