“Karo!” Tristam recovered his voice, and it was horrified. “Dear girl, you aren’t crying, are you? I assure you, it was nothing! I am at your service completely. Really! I don’t know when I’ve had a better time.”
Karo lifted her head. “Liar. I don’t know anyone more fastidious than you. The whole thing had to have been repugnant.”
He was fastidious, but only an innocent could image that the experience was repugnant.
“No. No, really. Karo.” He sighed, bending to retrieve the towel and turn off the steam. “Are you laughing at me, you wretched girl?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’ve always laughed when I get hysterical. It’s no more helpful than crying, but less disconcerting to others.”
Tristam stared at her. His hectic color began to subside. “I wouldn’t say that. Inappropriate laughter is most disconcerting, let me assure you. And this is most highly inappropriate.”
“Is it?” Karo put her hands back over her eyes. She added to herself, “But, then, you didn’t think you were going crazy, seeing ghosts when none were there. Bad as this is, it’s still a relief. I’m not crazy after all.”
“It’s not bad, it’s…Uh, ghosts? Like…ghosts?” Tristam’s voice rose as he finally pro cessed her words.
“Yes, ghosts. You’ve heard of them? Popu lar in literature and lore? The Flying Dutchman. The Wild Hunt. Headless Horsemen. Banshees. Poltergeists, restless spirits…” she enumerated.
“But ghosts? Here? In this house?”
“No, in Burma! Of course here. Think it through. It wasn’t just a random dream we shared, some kind of ESP or hallucination because of the underdone potato. Couldn’t you tell it was Hugh? Who took you up there to the garret?”
“Er, a dream Vellacourt did rather suggest I go on up. Blighter interrupted a damn fine golf game, too,” Tristam added indignantly.
Karo strangled some more laughter and took a grip on her fraying nerves.
Tristam frowned. “You aren’t really suggesting…Karo! My dear, please say that you aren’t suggesting what you’re suggesting. Why can’t this just be a shared dream? Or a bit of the extra-sensory stuff? You can’t really mean that creature—”
“But I do, Tristam.” She lowered her hands, all laughter dying. “I mean just that. I’ve talked to Hugh three times now. I’ve felt him hanging around more than that. We have a real live—or dead—ghost here at Belle Ange. You even recognized who he was when you saw him in your dream.”
“But…do you mean that he was actually there last night?” Tristam was again horrified. “In the garret? The whole time!”
“I’m afraid so. He even said…” Karo trailed off.
“Said what?” Tristam’s tone was ominous.
“Well, he suggested that…that, um…Never mind. It isn’t important. The main thing is that we have a ghost here.”
“I wouldn’t say that that’s the main thing.”
Their two flushed faces stared at one another across the brass espresso engine as the steamed milk cooled between them.
“But it didn’t really happen. To our bodies,” Karo insisted. “It was an illusion.”
Silence.
“Alright. First things first. A ghost,” Tristam said at last, mercifully breaking the uncomfortable quiet. “Then, by all means, let us adjourn to the library and try to find out exactly what he wants. That was the first place you saw him, yes?”
“I know what he wants—and it isn’t his diary.” Karo stared bravely into her would-be love’s annoyed golden eyes. “He’s lonely and he wants tourists to play with.”
“To play with?”
Karo flushed at Tristam’s outraged tone. “Not that way! At least, I don’t think… I hope…Good heavens! Do you believe he might…? But he can’t do anything if they’re awake.”
Her sentences were disconnecting at crucial, embarrassing points, but Tristam easily translated her incoherence. “I don’t know, but we had better find out, hadn’t we? I’ve only skimmed the other family members’ journals. I think it may be time to look more closely at the family history.”
“I have a headache and my stomach is jittery,” Karo complained.
“Oh, sorry. I have just the thing.” Tristam turned toward the cupboard and got down a small glass and a couple of bottles. Karo didn’t see what he was mixing, but she wasn’t surprised when he put a frothy pink drink in front of her. “Try this. It’s a corpse-reviver. I had it off a publican in Dublin.”
“It doesn’t have yogurt, does it?” she asked. “I hate yogurt.”
“No.” He waited until she swallowed a mouthful before adding, “It’s an antacid and a splash of bourbon.”
“Ew! Tristam!” But she stopped there. The drink was ghastly, but her stomach was beginning to feel healthier.
“Better? Then let us go exploring.” He reached out and took her arm in a firm grip, propelling her toward the library. The touch was not exactly sweet, but Karo enjoyed it anyway.
“Um, Tristam?” she asked as he hustled her down the dark hall. “Did you mean what you just said—about never having had a better time? Because it was great in a really strange way, but that just isn’t my normal…”
“I should hope not,” he said, blushing. “Let’s drop it for now.”
“But—”
“Don’t tempt me, Karo Follett. I am trying to do what’s right, but you are skating on very thin ice. We have to think about this. More than that, I suspect that we’re going to…well, we’re going to have to do something about this.” He shook his head and changed the subject. “Let’s see. I’ve heard iron is supposed to keep ghosts in their graves. And you can pour salt on the thresholds and paint the doors blue to confuse the spirits,” he mumbled to himself. “And then there’s always exorcism.”
“Exorcism? But, Tristam! You’re not thinking clearly—”
“I’ve had a shock. I expect I’ll be more coherent in a moment or so.” He thrust open the library door, ducked under the low arch and marched inside at a dignified crouch. “Damn doorway! I’ll just get on the horn to my old chum, Liam Mc-Donnel. I believe his family has a hereditary ghost. He’ll have some ideas about what to do with Vella-court.”
“But Tristam,” she tried again. “Why do we have to do anything to him?”
“What?” He stared at her.
“Look. Hugh does a lot more than just wander the corridors at night dragging clanking chains—”
“He certainly does! The cheeky bastard.”
“But he’s not some trigger of disaster. He’s not an omen, like a death coach or a baying hound or a banshee.”
“How do you know? I think he’s one of the Riders of the Apocalypse.”
He wasn’t taking this the way she’d expected. Now that it was out in the open and she knew she wasn’t insane, Karo was beginning to think quite differently. “Nonsense!” she expostulated. “Tristam, where’s your sense of avarice? You’re not thinking. We…we have a ghost. One that can do things.” She spaced out her words and enunciated clearly. “Like Mrs. Muir’s ghost. Like Sleepy Hollow.”
“Not exactly. Vellacourt is a reprobate Peeping Tom who would spend his time hanging about the ladies’ loo peeking up women’s skirts.”
“Well, I know that. But nobody else does. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he’d just be a regular old Southern haunt.”
“But last night,” he objected.
“Last night he was just trying to be helpful. He thought we needed a romantic nudge. He won’t do it again.” It was more hope than promise, but Karo made her voice firm. And loud. With any luck, Hugh would heed her warning. If he didn’t, he might well end up spending eternity in the great spiritual void—assuming exorcism could truly work.
“Helpful! Romantic nudge!” Tristam tottered a few steps and collapsed into a chair. He laid a hand over his eyes. The gesture was pure theater, and Karo knew that everything was going to be fine after all. Tristam went on in a hollow voice: “I suppose that you could call it so.
You were in control. Of course, you found my presence so disturbing that you set me on a perch and hooded me like some blasted bird of prey…!”
“Oh, stop it. You’re embarrassing me. And I—the real me—didn’t do it. Even if it had been, it wasn’t odious. Not like I thought it would be. It was…”
“Kinky.” Tristam’s fingers parted, and a golden eye looked her way. Karo stared at the ceiling and willed herself to fight off a blush, and he seemed to read her mind: “You should blush, my girl. That was very strange, and you obviously enjoyed it entirely too much.”
She defended herself. “I already have blushed—several times. But that is neither here nor there. We were discussing Vellacourt and the tourist trade. We can talk about the other business later.”
“Oh, can we? I think that we should talk about it now.”
“Absolutely not.” Karo was emphatic. “We have work to do—you have a deadline, remember—and I can’t concentrate when I’m…” She swallowed.
“And so?”
She huffed. “And so we can’t be having a—”
“Tête-à-tête on our sexual preferences and hang-ups? But why not?” he asked wistfully, even though her logic made perfect sense. His desire was overwhelming his practicality. He was thinking of everything he wanted from Karo and trying to forget Vellacourt’s involvement. “It’s bound to be more fun than anything in these blasted journals…”
She didn’t seem willing to play along. “Because,” she spluttered. “I already told you. I don’t do on-the-job romances. It’s a rule for me. Besides…there’s Hugh. I’m not an exhibitionist. Two’s company but three’s an orgy.”
Tristam stared at her flushed face and agitated hands as she avoided both his touch and gaze. “If I fired you, would you run away with me?”
“If you fire me, I’ll end up in debtors’ prison—or worse yet, back at home with my parents. Besides, you’ll never get all this work done without me.” Modesty was a virtue but not when overdone, and Karo couldn’t afford any false modesty. Neither could Tristam. Not if they were going to keep things safe and balanced.
“Perish the thought.” Her employer stood suddenly and squared his shoulders. “Very well, then. As our cup overfloweth with woe anyway, let’s get down to business. I just want you to keep in mind that we don’t know Hugh can’t follow us when we leave. What if we are never rid of him?”
Hugh wouldn’t follow them. Why would he? She shook her head. “He won’t. He likes it here. Maybe he has to stay here. So, yes, let’s get to work. Let’s go back to normal,” she said, relieved to finally be able to leave the subject of last night.
“Are we ready to send something off to the printer? We’ve only four weeks left.” Tristam’s voice was calm but he strafed the walls and ceiling with his gaze. She knew who he was looking for. Karo was just glad that he’d never looked at her that way.
“Uh…” She pulled her wits together. “We’re ready—or we will be by next week. Except for photos.”
“No photographs!” he commanded. “Unless Vellacourt agrees to pose with the china.”
“I could ask,” Karo offered.
Tristam goggled, momentarily startled out of his erect posture. “What!”
“I said that I could ask Hugh to pose.”
“Good God! That was a jest. Don’t even speak of that devil. I don’t want to encourage him. Or any ghost-hunting nuts.”
Karo wasn’t certain if she should take Tristam seriously. “I have a photo of him on my cell phone. It isn’t real clear, but we could use it. Want to see?”
“No. At least, not right now.” He continued to stare at her.
“Well, it’s an idea. Ghost-hunting nuts would pay money to see him,” she pointed out. Her thinking had evolved over time and she was no longer worrying about what the academics would say.
“It’s a terrible idea! We want a tourist attraction not a freak show. If we offer proof positive of a ghost, every nut-job from both sides of the Atlantic would show up here for séances and spirit-raisings. There’d be animal sacrifices,” he went on, warming to his Cassandraic theme. “Soon the National Enquirer will be camped on our doorstep, and the historical societies and the DAR will demand that we close our doors or be run out of town on a rail. We’d never make it into Frommer’s or Michelin, and—”
“Okay! Okay! I get the point,” she interrupted. “Don’t be so melodramatic. We’ll be a little subtler about cashing in.” Karo took Tristam’s abandoned chair and reached for a pad of paper. “Do we mention anything about him in our cookbook—throw in a recipe for ghost punch or something?”
“No. We handle all this”—he waved a hand, indicating both the architecture and the graveyard that lay just beyond the north wall—“by word of mouth. If I can’t get rid of him first,” Tristam added under his breath.
“Okay.” Karo scribbled a note. “When is that cleaning crew coming back? The floors need waxing.”
“Next week. We need to have the garret empty by then. We have a termite inspection on the thirtieth.” Tristam walked behind the desk and consulted his calendar. “The roofers have their inspection the next day—Halloween. And then the plasterers will be back to finish the repairs in the west wing. Also, I’ve called in a firm to deal with the largest of the chandeliers. The rigging has rusted. I put up a ladder and took a few swipes at the thing but even WD40 didn’t knock those things loose. I decided that it would be best to call in a professional before I fell off the ladder and became an example of Newtonian physics in action.”
“That’s best. Falling apples are one things, falling bodies another. Shall I schedule Miles?”
“Miles?” Tristam looked up.
“The photographer. For the postcards,” she reminded him. “Not the brochure.”
“Oh, yes. He can come anytime after the exterior work is done.” Tristam nodded, but continued to stare at her.
“What is it?” she asked, laying down her pen.
“We really have only one job left, excepting a tour of the lower basements.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” But she had a feeling she knew what he would say. Their plan to avoid it just wasn’t going to work.
“The garret.”
“Oh.” Karo looked away.
“We could do it separately. Want to toss a coin to see who gets stuck with it? Or…”
Karo could hear the laughter in Tristam’s voice and allowed herself to glance back at him. His eyes were gleaming. “Or?” she asked warily.
“Or do you think that you can keep your hands off of me for an entire afternoon?”
In response, Karo threw her pen at him.
They tackled the room together. In spite of their concern, Vellacourt tactfully made no appearance. They were only hampered in their task by their own memories and febrile imaginations, which they wisely kept to themselves.
After much debate, they decided to leave the room as it was, save for some cleaning. Vellacourt’s toys had to go somewhere, seeing as Clarice didn’t want any of it destroyed, and this was as good a spot as any. The garret would be straightened—it was surprisingly clean, and Karo wondered if it was Vellacourt’s ghost having kept it tidy or something else—and then they would install a sturdy lock to discourage visitors from the tour. They would bring up Vellacourt’s more eclectic journals and inventions and put the whole lot under lock and key. Everything would remain safe and sound.
Karo hoped the plan would please the ghost. She didn’t put much stock in Tristam’s suggestion that Vellacourt would like to be sent to an eternal rest; their overly friendly haunt wasn’t spending his semicorporeal moments leading them after his moldering bones or toward lost gold, nor was he spinning tales of murder and vengeance. Nor was he trying to drive them off with clanking chains or ghostly moans. As spirits went, he was a very quiet soul. The only way she ever knew he was watching her was when her body temperature took an unexpected rise. When she explained the phenomenon, Tristam was dismayed. That he was hot instead of cold see
med suggestive of bad things.
The moments of feeling the ghost’s presence were uncomfortable for Karo, both because of the betraying heat washing through her body and because of Tristam’s silent anger when he noticed. Jealousy, she could tell. It was weird, in her opinion, his annoyance, and it was making her uncomfortable. She explained that she thought it was the lightning strike that had done this to her, opening her to seeing Hugh’s spirit, but that only made Tristam more suspicious. He suggested Hugh had arranged for her to be struck. Karo didn’t mention that the ghost had said something to this effect.
One thing that was gone from the room were the candles. There were candles all through the house, in bottles, in saucers, in candelabras and sticks. They all scared Karo, who could too easily imagine accidentally setting the old house ablaze.
Flameless candles for the rest of the house, she wrote in her notebook, planning more things to buy. Better a fortune spent on batteries than a fire.
She also found a cedar chest shoved into the darkest corner of the room. Mothballs—the odor of things past, perfume to the historian—wafted out of the chest when Karo lifted the lid. Inside she found a scrap of yellowed linen that she was certain had belonged to Eustacie, and that was the very one featured in the previous night’s X-rated experience. Karo decided not to show it to Tristam.
They took a break around five and stepped outside for a breath of air while they surveyed the Campion brothers’ recent work. The grounds were greatly improved over the jungle they’d been on the day of Karo’s arrival; the overgrown plants were slapped back from the house, and the red stony soil was buried under acres of new green sod that rolled on, smooth as a velvet croquet green. Which in fact it was. The first scheduled tournament would be played the last week in November.
Filtered sunlight filled up the mansion’s usually shady hollow like pale wine and gilded everything with an autumnal touch. It made a nice change from the dusty daylight on the third floor.
Karo and Tristam strolled out to the center courtyard where the laborers were currently working at restoring the formal gardens. A mighty winged gryphon at the center of a rediscovered fountain, carved of stone, had been scraped clean of its undignified bird droppings, and the small, cascading pools had been emptied of a decade’s clutter to again run quiet and clear over his stony toenails.
The Ghost and Miss Demure Page 18