With a small sigh of satisfaction she tucked a stray lock of her reddish-blond hair behind her ear — she wore it up but strands were always getting loose — and reached for her pen once more. Even as she did so there came a knock at the door. Tamara frowned. It was too early for William to have returned as yet. It could not be good news.
“Yes?” she called.
The door opened to reveal Martha Ivers, a thin, gray-haired woman who had been the first servant to accept an offer of employment from the Swifts after their previous staff had all either run off in terror or been horribly killed. Tamara did not blame them for their trepidation and she admired Martha’s willingness to ignore previous circumstance. If not for this woman’s willingness to ignore the whispers about the Swift family, Tamara had no doubt she and William would have had to fend for themselves with no domestic help at all. As it was they were still under-staffed for an estate of this size, but everyone was doing their best.
“Pardon me, Miss,” Martha said with a curt inclination of her head. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news.”
Tamara’s eyelids fluttered with pique. “Yes. I’d thought you might. Well, spare me the suspense, Martha.”
The aging maid was often brusque, and she seemed to appreciate Tamara’s willingness to dispense with the niceties and forge ahead to the business at hand. A flicker of amusement went across her features.
“It’s Sally. The new girl. I’m afraid she’s run off.”
“Run off?” Tamara asked, taken aback. But then logic reinterpreted the words and she shook her head. “Let me guess. She went into the library?”
Martha nodded. “I instructed her, as I do all the new staff members, that only I am to clean the library. Still, it does seem that her curiosity got the better of her.”
“And she saw Byron?”
Martha raised her chin and stood a bit straighter, as though unwilling to concede there was anything odd about the conversation. “Indeed,” she replied. “The girl muttered something about a ghost and poetry, and added that no living man ever spoke to her in a manner so boldly lascivious.”
Tamara rose from her chair and went to the window, letting the sun warm her, seep down into her bones. There was a chill in her always, of late. She turned and smiled wanly at Martha.
“If that shocked her, I’d hate to think what might have happened if she’d heard the sorts of things Byron says to the new stable boy.”
The gray-haired maid blinked but made an obvious effort not to react to this latest bit of knowledge about the goings on at Ludlow House. After a moment, when Tamara did not go on, she let her shoulders sag.
“You’ll want me to find a replacement, Miss?”
“Of course,” Tamara replied. “And another girl besides. Not to mention a groundskeeper. Thank goodness the cook doesn’t seem bothered by the presence of the . . . less tangible residents of the house. Let alone my father’s lunatic ravings.”
The household staff might be willing to put up with a haunting now and again, particularly if the ghosts were not especially aggressive. But Tamara and William were not fools. They were the only living residents of Ludlow House who knew that their father’s affliction — the madness that caused them to keep him shackled inside a locked room — had nothing to do with true lunacy, and everything to do with the demon possessing his soul.
Martha cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you’ve need of at the moment, Miss?”
Tamara assured her there was not and the maid took her leave, closing the door once more behind her. When she returned her attention once more to the page upon the desk it took several moments for her to find her place in the narrative again, for her to imagine herself in the dire circumstances of her protagonist. Then she nodded once and reached for her pen.
Once again, she was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Yes?” she called, allowing her annoyance to sneak into her tone.
She fully expected to see Martha again, returning with some additional bit of bad news that had slipped her mind the first time. Instead, the door swung open and Bertram Farris entered. Farris was broad-shouldered and stocky, far less elegant than the slender and particular men Tamara had always encountered in his position. But he was an excellent butler, a gentleman’s gentleman who came from a family with a proud history as household domestics.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tamara,” the butler said, executing a small bow.
“And to you, Farris. You’ll pardon my brusqueness, but I hope you’re not here with further tales of woe.”
The butler stood as though at attention, more grimly proper than any military man. “Not at all, Miss. It’s only that Master William had not yet returned and there is a visitor at the door. I made it clear to him that Ludlow House is not in the habit of receiving strange visitors unannounced —”
“Would that we weren’t,” Tamara muttered.
“I also informed him that Master William was not at home, but he then insisted upon seeing you. Shall I send him away, Miss?”
Tamara ruminated on the question. She glanced longingly at her manuscript and then out the window at the golden afternoon sunlight, which would soon grow dim. Once William had returned home, dinner would be imminent. If she left the room now she knew that she would be abandoning her writing for the day.
At length she sighed and rose from her chair again. “No, Farris. I’ll speak with him. Where have you left him?”
“In the drawing room, Miss.”
Farris stepped aside so that Tamara could exit her grandfather’s chambers. Sir Ludlow was dead, but no matter how much time passed she would always think of the rooms as his. The shadows were deeper there in the corridor but Tamara paid them no attention at all. Shadows and light were constant companions. Without the darkness one would be unable to recognize, to appreciate, the purity of the light.
She made her way through the house and down the grand staircase at its heart, into the foyer. Farris kept pace with her as though he were her personal guardian, and she knew that in a way he was. Without William in the house it would have been entirely inappropriate for her to meet behind closed doors with a male visitor, stranger or not.
The doors to the drawing room had been left open and as her skirts whispered across the floor her mysterious visitor glanced up from his perch upon the settee and caught sight of her. He was an old man with only wisps of white hair and skin rough and weathered, and his eyes narrowed with determination when she strode into the room. Tea had been brought to him, but now he set the cup back upon the tray and stood quickly.
“Miss Swift, thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me,” he said, and by his accent she took him for a Welshman. Or, if not from Wales, she would have guessed the borderlands, perhaps Shropshire.
Farris took up a place just inside the drawing room and she could not shake the sudden image that came into her mind, that she was a Sister of Charity come to visit a prisoner on the day of his execution. Certainly the desperation and sorrow in her visitor’s expression did nothing to dissuade her of the illusion.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” Tamara said. “I am, indeed, Tamara Swift. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to introduce yourself.”
The old man paled and cast a glance downward. “My apologies, Miss. I’m not usually so rude. It’s only that I came a long way to see you — you and your brother — and when I was told he was not at home I feared you were also not in residence. It is a great relief to see you.
“My name is Nichols, Miss. Dr. John Nichols, of Blackbriar, Herefordshire.”
Tamara extended her hand and allowed him to take it. Dr. Nichols respectfully inclined his head.
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Though I gather by your manner and the abruptness of your appearance here that the circumstances of your visit are hardly pleasant.”
The elderly man gazed at her a moment, as though he wanted desperately to reveal to her the pain in his heart but was ashamed to do so. Then he clasped his han
ds in front of him.
“No, miss. Not at all pleasant. Would you mind terribly if I sat?”
Tamara gestured toward the settee. “Of course, Doctor. I’m sorry, please do.”
Dr. Nichols returned to the settee, still perched upon its edge as though afraid he might have to lurch from it at any moment. Tamara sat in a delicate chair just across from him and though she was tempted to snatch up one of the biscuits that had been set out for him with the tea tray, she refrained. Her gaze shifted toward Farris, still and silent as a statue by the door, then back to the despondent wretch who had appeared upon her doorstep.
“Well, Doctor, you certainly have my attention.”
The old man nodded. He glanced anxiously about the room several times and when he spoke he could not meet her gaze. “Here in the city it might be different, Miss. Where I come from, we still hold onto more than a little superstition. Legend. Tales we tell the children.”
He stole a glance at her and she saw that he was trying to gauge her response. His despair had been replaced now with a gravity of purpose.
“Of course there’s some truth to all of those tales, isn’t there, Miss Swift?”
Tamara nodded slowly. “Yes, Dr. Nichols. Yes, there is.”
In that moment it was as though the afternoon shadows quickened their rush toward evening. The room darkened. Tamara narrowed her eyes and studied Dr. Nichols more closely. The man hung his head for several seconds and when he looked up it was with such relief in his features that Tamara wanted to weep for him.
“For those of us who still believe in such things, whispers go around. New stories arise. When something as terrible as what happened earlier this year in London takes place there are still so many who will deny it, who will try to invent other explanations for the death, for the horror, for what people have seen with their own eyes. Most will accept these inventions because they do not want to believe the truth. But I have heard a great many stories about what happened in the city, and I believe them.
“Some of the stories, Miss Swift, speak of you and your brother.”
Tamara felt a chill go through her but she kept her gaze firm. “Go on, Doctor.”
Once more the old man glanced about the room as if mustering the fortitude to continue. At last he turned to meet her gaze and beneath his pain Tamara saw a strength in his eyes she had not noticed there before.
“Blackbriar is a small village, Miss Swift. I am its only doctor and chief benefactor, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. Several years ago I lost my son when a horse threw him. He broke his neck but did not die instantly. I reached him before he passed and could do nothing but wait for the moment. A cruel irony that a doctor should have to watch helplessly as the light goes out of his son’s eyes.”
Tamara’s throat felt dry and she gazed at Dr. Nichols with new sympathy, but the old man did not notice. His eyes were far away, reliving events now distant both in place and time.
“His wife Julia and their daughter Sarah came to live with me and I have cared for them as best I could. My own sweet Elizabeth passed many, many years ago. We have made a life together, my daughter-in-law, my granddaughter and I. We all have suffered losses. The sun goes down at the end of every day. Darkness enters all our lives.”
This statement was similar enough to her own earlier ruminations as to cause Tamara to shiver again, but she did not interrupt.
A fierce pride burned in the old man’s eyes as he continued. “Earlier this year, my granddaughter became pregnant, as foolish young village girls sometimes do. Still, Julia and I did not send her away, but cared for her throughout her time. It was a difficult birth. I delivered the baby myself. When it was over, Sarah . . . something was wrong with her. Most of the time she is in a state of strange trancelike state, rigid as though paralyzed, eyes wide open but unseeing. In infrequent bursts, she seems to become aware of her surroundings, but then she only . . .”
Dr. Nichols closed his eyes and put one hand over his chest. His lips pressed together as though he were holding back a scream. “Then she only laughs. This wild, maniacal giggling. And then she slips back into her paralytic state again. I am a doctor, Miss Swift. A good one, I like to think. I’ve seen nothing like this before, nor even heard of anything like it.”
For several moments she waited for him to continue, but Dr. Nichols only stared at her expectantly. Tamara grimaced, her heart aching for the man.
“That’s terrible, Doctor. Truly. I am sorry for your hardship, for what’s happened to Sarah. But I’m afraid I’m not sure why you’ve come to me. To us. There’s obviously some medical phenomenon at work here. What is it you think my brother and I can do to help?” An idea suddenly occurred to her, against all of her expectations. “Is it a bank issue? Do you need funds for research?”
But the doctor was shaking his head.
“No, Miss Swift. I’m sorry, I haven’t been clear. Haven’t told you the entire story. You see, my granddaughter is not the only one this has happened to. There are six other girls, all within Blackbriar village. I . . . I delivered most of their babies.”
Tamara tilted her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I still don’t see —”
“The babies, Miss Swift. The child in my house . . . the other babies born in the village recently . . . they are not the children I delivered. Someone has replaced them, you see. Taken the babies and in their place, left others.”
She could not mask her disbelief and knew he would be insulted, but she could not help it.
“Why?” Tamara asked. “Why would anyone do that? And how could you tell, if someone is swapping newborn babies for other infants?”
The smile on Dr. Nichols’ face turned her stomach, for there was hysteria in it, not humor. “It isn’t difficult to tell the difference,” the doctor said. “Sarah’s baby, all of the others. Well, they’re not human, Miss. Not human at all.”
All the breath went out of her and Tamara stared at him, eyes wide.
“What do you mean, not human? How can you tell?”
“If you saw them, you would know. Something like this cannot possibly be —”
There came the sound of the front door closing loudly and then footsteps in the foyer. Belatedly, as though it had taken too long for the sounds to reach her, she glanced over to see William coming into the drawing room. Though Farris had heard everything Dr. Nichols had said, the butler remained remarkably poised.
Curiosity and confusion played across her brother’s features as he entered the room. Tamara and Dr. Nichols rose from their places.
“Hello, Tamara,” William said. “I see we have a guest.”
These words were said pleasantly and laden with the expectation of imminent introductions. Tamara was constantly amazed that William seemed to have none of the instincts that she felt developing within herself. He clearly had not an inkling that their visitor was not paying a social call, or here on any sort of legitimate business linked to the family.
With a roll of her eyes she strode across the room.
“Pack a bag, William. We’re going on a trip,” she said, as she went past him and out into the foyer.
“A trip?” he asked, with a mix of amusement and annoyance in his tone. “I cannot simply depart on a whim, Tam. We’ve agreed —”
“There’s nothing to be done about it. We must go.”
William sighed. “Go where?”
Tamara paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Herefordshire. A village called Blackbriar.”
William glanced back into the drawing room at Dr. Nichols, whose acquaintance he still had not made, and then looked at his sister again. “Herefordshire? What’s in Herefordshire?”
Tamara narrowed her eyes. “Something terrible,” she said, and then she started up the steps to begin preparing for their trip. Even as she ascended she could hear her brother’s voice drifting up after her.
“Right. Wonderful,” William muttered. “That’s just wonderful.”
— From "Astray" from Ghosts of Albion:
Collected Tales —
Coming Soon From Amber Benson and Christopher Golden
OTHER WORKS BY AMBER BENSON
GHOSTS OF ALBION SERIES
Astray [w/Christopher Golden]
Initiation [w/Christopher Golden]
Accursed [w/Christopher Golden]
Witchery [w/Christopher Golden]
THE CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES SERIES
Death's Daughter
Cat's Claw
Serpent's Storm
How To Be Death
Among The Ghosts
OTHER WORKS BY CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN
Strangewood
Straight On 'Til Morning
The Ferryman
The Boys Are Back in Town
Wildwood Road
The Secret Backs of Things
The Shell Collector
Bloodstained Oz [w/James A. Moore]
The Ocean Dark [As Jack Rogan]
The Collective [As Jack Rogan]
Baltimore, or The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire [w/Mike Mignola]
Joe Golem and the Drowning City [w/Mike Mignola]
Father Caetano’s Puppet Catechism [w/Mike Mignola]
THE VEIL SERIES
The Myth Hunters
The Borderkind
The Lost Ones
THE HIDDEN CITIES SERIES
Mind the Gap [w/Tim Lebbon]
The Map of Moments [w/Tim Lebbon]
The Chamber of Ten [w/Tim Lebbon]
The Shadow Men [w/Tim Lebbon]
THE SHADOW SAGA
Of Saints and Shadows
Angel Souls and Devil Hearts
Of Masques and Martyrs
The Gathering Dark
Waking Nightmares
THE MENAGERIE SERIES
The Nimble Man [w/Tom Sniegoski]
The Tears of Furies [w/Tom Sniegoski]
Stones Unturned [w/Tom Sniegoski]
Crashing Paradise [w/Tom Sniegoski]
The Seven Whistlers Page 12