Crystal Heart

by Kruger, Mary

  The coach jolted to a stop, and the maids, excited, tumbled out. Flinching as they jostled past her, Alana finally descended more sedately and stood in the drive, surveying her new home. It was much like other houses she’d seen, originally Elizabethan, half-timbered and gabled, save in one detail. The plaster was not white. Rather, it was pink. Not an unattractive shade, really, a pastel color that would look well in a gown, but ludicrous on a house. Over the door was a heart-shaped plaque similar to the sign she had seen on the drive. “Heart’s Ease,” she murmured.

  “Good God,” a voice muttered beside her, and she looked up to see Mr. Winston, looking decidedly the worse for wear. His hair stood up in unruly curls, and his neckcloth was limp. “What the hell have I got myself into?”

  Alana’s mouth tilted in amusement and reluctant sympathy. “Did you enjoy the ride, Mr. Winston? Dorset is said to be an attractive place.”

  He shot her a sour look as they walked into the house. “You must know I didn’t. I—good God,” he said again, and this time, Alana was tempted to echo the sentiment. “It’s pink.”

  “So it is.” Her mouth tilted again as she looked about the hall. In keeping with the style of the house, she had expected to see a traditional hall, which would originally have been the center of the house. Perhaps it had been, once, but at some point someone had decided to embellish it. The walls were colored the same tint as the plaster outside, and on them hung brightly-colored romantic paintings, of shepherds and shepherdesses frolicking, or bewigged ladies and gentlemen dancing the minuet, all with heavily gilded frames. Over the doorways twined gilded vines and leaves; surmounting these was another painting, this one of a plump and florid Cupid, apparently aiming his bow at anyone who passed beneath. Nor were the furnishings, few though they were, any less startling. Several armchairs in crimson brocade stood against one wall, while what had probably once been a handsome oak refectory table was in the center of the room, its top and legs painted gold. What wasn’t pink in the room was crimson; what wasn’t crimson, was gilded. Alana looked up at John, and saw her astonishment mirrored in his eyes. “It is pink,” she agreed, and for the first time saw amusement come into his face.

  “I see you are admiring my hall.” A tall, stout woman paced into the room, her fading blond hair piled in ringlets atop her head. Her gown, Alana noted, was mauve rather than pink, but she had no doubt as to who had decorated the hall. “Mrs. Waverly, please see to the new maids,” she said, and the plump woman behind her, dressed in black bombazine, took charge of the giggling girls, bustling them out of the room. “I am Lady Pamela Valentine. You must be Mr. Winston? Ah, yes. And you are Miss Sterling. Do you like my hall?”

  John and Alana glanced at each other again, and then hastily looked away. “It is, ah, unique,” Alana said, managing somehow to keep her composure.

  “So it is. I do not believe there is another room like it in the whole of England.”

  “I hope not,” John muttered.

  “Who did the paintings?” Alana said quickly, praying that Lady Pamela had not heard.

  “I did. Are they not charming? So in keeping with the rest of the house. Heart’s Ease.” She beamed about the room. “You have come at just the right time. We quite enjoy celebrating Valentine’s Day, and this year we plan a masquerade. Of course you will help.”

  “Of course.”

  “Dashed if I—” John began, and Alana kicked his foot. “Ahem. Dashed if I wouldn’t enjoy that, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Sir Ronald, my husband, will see to you, Mr. Winston, and explain your duties to you. You do know we expect you to chronicle the family’s history, as well as catalogue our library? Good. And I will take you up to Lady Honoria myself, Miss Sterling. She has been waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Alana gathered her skirts and followed Lady Pamela up the stairs, the railings festooned with more gilded vines and leaves. The last glimpse she had of Mr. Winston, as she turned on the landing, was of him staring, open-mouthed, about the hall. She could almost feel sympathy for him. Almost.

  “I am glad you are here, Miss Sterling,” Lady Pamela went on as they ascended the stairs. “I must tell you, in strictest confidence, of course, that Lady Honoria has been something of a trial to me these past weeks, since her last companion left. Why, she does not even wish to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year, and she has always enjoyed it. Can you credit it?”

  “No, ma’am. Is Lady Honoria well?”

  Lady Pamela’s mouth tightened. “She’ll outlive us all, if you ask me. But, there, I wouldn’t want you to think we wish otherwise. We all adore Lady Honoria. A woman could not ask for a better mama-in-law.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Alana’s mouth tilted again. So Lady Honoria was a bit of a dragon, and Lady Pamela did not get along with her at all. Well, it was no more than she’d expected. She’d dealt with crotchety old ladies before. She would manage this time, as well. “I cannot help noticing the coincidence of the family name, and the name of the house. Is there a story behind that, ma’am?”

  “Yes, it is the most amazing thing.” Lady Pamela stopped in the hall and turned, her eyes shining. “This house used to belong to a family called Hart. Last century, it passed to the Valentine family, through marriage, you see. It was a very happy marriage, I’ve been told, and that is why the house is named as it is. And that is when celebrating Valentine’s Day became a family tradition. It was a very plain house, though, when I came here. I decorated it suitably.”

  Alana bit the inside of her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And of course, there is the ghost.”

  Alana stopped. “The ghost, ma’am?”

  “Oh, heavens, don’t tell me you are frightened? ‘Tis only a legend, after all. And so romantic, too. You see, this house was built by the Follett family. Sir Gabriel, the last of the family to live here, died on Valentine’s Day. Ever since, it is said he haunts the house. I haven’t seen him, though,” she added, and Alana thought she sounded disappointed.

  “I see.” Alana followed. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time she had lived in a haunted house. Grandfather’s home had ghosts to spare, not the least of which was the memory of her own mother. But that was something she would not think about.

  “Here we are.” Lady Pamela opened a door, to a room furnished in good English oak and faded chintz. Sitting in a chair near a window was a stout old woman, wearing sensible gray and a cap upon her head. No frills or furbelows here, Alana noted with relief. “Mother Valentine, here is your new companion. Miss Sterling.”

  “Don’t call me that ridiculous name,” the old lady grumbled. “What is that you have on, Pammy?”

  “My new gown.” Lady Pamela turned. “Do you like it?”

  “Hmph. Well, at least it is not pink. Come over into the light, girl.” She beckoned to Alana with an imperious finger. “I can’t see you over there.”

  “Now, Mother Valentine, don’t you scare her her first day here.”

  “Hmph. If she’s scared of me she’s a ninnyhammer.”

  “I’m not frightened of you, ma’am,” Alana said, calmly.

  “You aren’t? And why not? I’ve been told I’m frightening enough.”

  “Nevertheless, I am not frightened.”

  “Hmph.” Lady Honoria glared at her, and Alana made herself meet her gaze. It would not do to back down now. “You’ll do, I suppose. Leave us, Pammy.”

  “But, Mother Valentine—”

  “I said, leave us!” She glared at Lady Pamela, and then her eyes softened. “Leave us, now, Pammy, there’s a good girl.”

  “Yes, mother,” Lady Pamela murmured, and went out, her shoulders just a bit slumped. Alana wondered which bothered her more: being dismissed so summarily, or being called “Pammy.” She suspected the latter.

  “Well, sit down, sit down,” Lady Honoria said, crossly. “Can’t talk to you with you towering over me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alana said, and drew a footstool over, to begin the diff
icult task of getting to know her new employer.

  Alana encountered John that evening, as she was making her way to the kitchen to fetch her tray. “Good evening, Miss Sterling,” he said, falling into step with her as she went through the green baize door that led to the kitchen, in the back of the house. Apparently he was in the same position as she, not quite a servant, but definitely not part of the family, either.

  “Good evening, sir. How are you finding your work?”

  John grimaced. “Difficult. There are hundreds of books to be catalogued. Do you know, some have not even been opened? I had to cut the leaves as I went through them. Criminal waste.”

  “You sound as if you really care,” Alana said, surprised.

  “I like books. There is also a great quantity of papers for me to sort. They want me to write some sort of family history.”

  “Is it interesting?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, no.”

  “Lady Pamela told me a bit this afternoon. About the Hart family, and how the house came by its name.”

  “Yes. Have you ever seen the like of this place?”

  “No, I can’t say I’ve had the privilege.”

  “Privilege. Hah. Not what I’m accustomed to.”

  “Not what most people are accustomed to, I should think.” She paused, as he held the door to the kitchen open for her. “Where were you raised, sir?”

  “Here and there.” He avoided her eyes. “I say. Was anything said to you about a ghost?”

  “Yes. A Sir Gabriel Follett, I believe.”

  “That’s what I was told, too. This is a rum go. If I hadn’t made that dashed wage—promise, I’d be in London.”

  “What promise?” she asked, intrigued more by what he hadn’t said than what he had. A wager? Could a poor scholar afford such a thing? There was a mystery about Mr. Winston.

  “Er, I promised my cousin I’d stay in one place this time.” He averted his eyes as he stepped over to the table, where two trays stood waiting. “I say, is this our dinner?”

  “It must be. Have you had trouble keeping positions, too?”

  “Yes. But not because people die on me.” He smiled at her suddenly, and in spite of her distrust of him, Alana smiled back. “My, er, cousin put me through school, you see, and I have been trying to pay him back ever since.”

  “Admirable of you.”

  “Thank you. I say.” He stopped, holding his tray. “I plan to eat in the library. Care to join me?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m a trifle fatigued. I thought I would eat in my room, and then go to sleep.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked so crestfallen that Alana momentarily regretted her coolness. The worst part of her working was that she was often lonely. The servants, with their strict sense of propriety, felt uneasy if she tried to socialize with her, and her employers considered her beneath them. Having someone in the house who was in the same position was rare. It would be nice to have a friend, she thought, if only he weren’t so flirtatious. “So you promised your cousin you would stay here.”

  “Yes. For six months, anyway. Well, I don’t think he should have to go on supporting me, do you?”

  “Many people wouldn’t feel that way.” Alana lifted her tray, and together they left the kitchen. “Who is your cousin, sir?”

  John opened the door and glanced back, as if to see if anyone were listening. “The Marquess of Ware.”

  “Oh. I see.” That explained why his name was familiar. The marquess and her grandfather were acquainted, and she had met several members of the Winston family. Not that she wanted him to know that, however. Let him think she was plain Miss Sterling. “Well, I do hope you will be able to stick it here,” she said, as they reached the main floor. “Good evening.”

  “Miss Sterling,” he said, and she paused near the back stairs. “Won’t you reconsider and dine with me?”

  His smile was so winning that, in spite of herself, Alana responded, smiling as well. “I thank you, sir, but no. Good evening,” she said again, and this time turned, climbing the stairs to her room.

  In her room, she sank down at the writing table, sighing in relief and tiredness. There, she’d made it through the day, and supper, she saw, lifting the napkin from the tray, looked palatable. Lady Honoria was difficult, but she was confident she could get manage that in time. The strangeness of the Valentine family was another matter. Good heavens, this house was hideous! Fortunately, though, Lady Honoria didn’t ascribe to the Valentine mania, and fortunately, her own room had not been touched. Here was the oak paneling, the dark tester bed and worn velvet hangings she had expected to see in the rest of the house. Altogether a most sumptuous room for a mere companion, and on the same floor with the family, too. Unusual, but she wouldn’t question it. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she began to eat her dinner.

  Sometime later, her head jerked forward with a start. Heavens, she must have dozed, and with the dirty dishes still on her writing table. No wonder she was tired. It had been a very long day. Rising, she stretched, and was bending to pick up the tray, when she noticed a glow near one wall. Had she lighted a candle and left it there? she wondered, rubbing her eyes. No, there was no candle, but the glow remained. Suddenly apprehensive, she backed up against the writing table, as the glow began to solidify, assume a shape. It began at the bottom, swirling into feet shod in high-heeled slippers, leading upwards to silk-hosed legs and leather breeches. Over this was a long coat, of the style worn over a century before, with foaming lace at the deep cuffs. Alana was aware of the shallowness of her breathing, as her gaze rose to where the head must appear. She encountered twinkling eyes set in a handsome, vaguely familiar face, framed by long, luxuriant curls cascading down his shoulders and surmounted by a huge hat with a feather plume. Good heavens. Was this the ghost. “You—you—”

  “Good evening, madam.” His voice was pleasantly deep, not at all sepulchral, as she had half-expected. “Forgive me for appearing before you like this. I trust I have not frightened you?”

  Alana pressed back against the writing table, as he crossed the room. “You—you’re—”

  “Sir Gabriel Follett, madam.” He swept off his hat, bowing low. “At your service.”

  “Sir Gabriel Follett,” she repeated, dazed. And, though she had never in her life been the least missish, Alana fainted.

  Chapter Three

  The sharp aroma of smelling salts filled Alana’s nostrils, making her jerk her head up and back. “Oh! Get that nasty stuff away from me.”

  The man bending over her, his face creased with concern, pulled back. “I am sorry, dear lady. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Well, you did,” Alana said crossly, scuttling back and rising, a good distance away. “Who in the world are you, and how did you get into my room?”

  “Did I not introduce myself? Ah, yes, I did, and then you fainted.”

  “I never faint.”

  “Forgive me, dear lady, but you did. I am Sir Gabriel Follett.” And he executed that sweeping bow again, bending low.

  “Oh, do get up.” Alana crossed the room, circling as far from him as possible, and went to the wall where she had first seen the glow appear. “Sir Gabriel Follett is dead.”

  “Well I know it.”

  “There must be a door here.” She moved her hands over the oak paneling. “I know old houses such as this often have secret doors. My grandfather’s does.”

  “Who is your grandfather, dear lady?”

  “He is the—never mind! There must be a door.”

  “There isn’t. I know this house well. I have been trapped here for 150 years, waiting for the right person.”

  That made Alana turn. The man looked woebegone, somehow, standing in the center of the room with his hat held before him, even its jaunty plume hanging limp. “You really believe what you are saying, don’t you?”

  “I assure you, madam, I am not romancing you. I do not lie.” With a flick of the wrist, he sent the hat sailing across th
e room, to land on the bed. “But I can understand if you do not believe me. Shall I show you?”

  “Show me what?”

  “This.” The arm he held outstretched began to fade, the hand first, then the lace-covered wrist, higher and higher, until it was gone. “Shall I go on?”

  Alana abruptly sank onto a chair. “No,” she said, weakly. She could see no way he might be playing such a trick, unless he really were who he said he was. “You really are Sir Gabriel.”

  He bowed, briefly this time. “At your service, dear lady.”

  “Good God.” Alana passed a shaky hand over her brow. “There are supposed to be ghosts at grandfather’s, but I never encountered one.”

  “I am sorry if I frightened you, but I need your help.” He paused. “May I sit down?”

  The humor of the situation suddenly struck Alana. Here she was, her first day in her new position, entertaining a courteous ghost. She must be dreaming. “Of course. How may I help you, sir?”

  “It is a long story. If I may impose upon you?”

  “Of course,” she said again, her lips tilting upwards. Definitely a dream. “I should pinch myself.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To make certain I’m awake.”

  “I fear you are, dear lady. Or would you wish me to prove myself to you again?”

  “No, don’t! Please.” She strove to appear calm. “Is there something I can do for you?”