The Mists of Midnight
by
Michelle M. Pillow
The Mists of Midnight © copyright 2004 – 2013 by Michelle M. Pillow
Second Electronic Printing February 2011, The Raven Books
First Electronic Printing April 2004
Cover art by Natalie Winters, © Copyright 2011 -2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
ISBN 9781452422305
Published by The Raven Books at Smashwords
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This novel is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events or places is merely coincidence. Novel intended for adults only. Must be 18 years or older to read.
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The Mists of Midnight
by
Michelle M. Pillow
The Mists of Midnight
Paranormal Regency Historical Ghost Romance
Imogen Drake has always been willful, rarely doing what’s expected of her. When she refuses to obey her parents and marry an industrious Colonel, they decide to hire tutor to train her to be a proper lady wife.
Imogen assumes the handsome Dougal Weston is the man sent to instruct her from her rebellious ways. Her attraction to him is instant, but the confusing man seems set in keeping her in her place—even if she detects he feels something for her. With his arrival at Rothfield Park comes an abundance of unrested spirits. Suddenly, Imogen doesn’t know who is alive and who is dead. Why have they come now? And what are they trying frantically to tell her? Imogen must discover the truth about the eerie night mist that surrounds the manor before it comes to claim everyone she holds dear—including Mr. Weston.
Also by Michelle M. Pillow
If you like this book, you might enjoy…
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Maiden & the Monster
Emerald Knight
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice
Paranormal Historical Romances by Michelle M. Pillow
Naughty Cupid Trilogy
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Cupid’s Revenge
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Mists of Midnight
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About The Mists of Midnight
This book holds a very dear place in my heart. It is with this story that my career was launched back in April 2004 and I’ve been a fulltime author ever since. Though it was the 9th novel that I had written at the time, it was the very first of my published novels. Now, even as my book list is closer to 100 than to 1, I still remember this book fondly as where it all started. Some of those first books have never seen the top of a publisher’s desk (though I’m sure that will soon change).
So much has happened to me since the book first released, and I wouldn’t change any of it for the world. The Mists of Midnight represents several of my loves—historicals, paranormals, and romances. It seems fitting to me that it should now be released through my newest step (and the latest love) in my writing career, the publishing house: The Raven Books.
I am grateful to all of the readers and publishers who have given me a chance over the years, and to the authors with whom I’ve become friends. You all are such a big part of my life. And I could never forget the very talented author, Mandy M. Roth, my The Raven Books partner and a dear friend.
To all, Thank You and Happy Reading!
Michelle M. Pillow
www.michellepillow.com
Chapter One
Rothfield Park, England, 1812
“My heart pounded in a violent fit and the child, she would not quit screaming,” exclaimed Jane Drake to her oldest and most treasured sister. Her round eyes shone through the glass frames of her spectacles, echoing the strength of her conviction. “I swear to you, Imogen. It was real. There are unrested spirits at Rothfield Park!”
Jane’s usually meek expression paled with fright. Absently, she pushed the sliding spectacles up her nose. Her pink linen gown flowed as she walked, reflected in the flush of her cheeks. The high empire waist was belted with a dark pink sash and ribbons of matching fancy bound up her dark brown hair. Despite the richness of her gown, Jane had an indifferent air to her, an untidiness that was rather endearing.
“It was a dream,” returned Imogen calmly. She sighed, her concerned blue eyes meeting her sister’s wide brown ones. Jane was such a sweet girl. Imogen loved her dearly. However, her bookish sister had something of a wild imagination when it came to Rothfield Park.
Imogen had half a mind to rebuke the servants for telling the girl such fanciful tales upon the family’s arrival. Patting her sister’s cheek with a soft, kidskin glove, she whispered, “Oh, Jane, we have let Rothfield Park for nigh six whole months. If there were spirits lurking about the manor they would have made themselves known before now.”
“But I think they are making themselves known. I have heard them about this week past,” Jane Insisted. “I know there is more than one of them. There is the terrified child. And a man--”
“Jane, I will hear no more. Quit trying to frighten me.” Imogen shivered, disliking the supernatural talk. She had no idea why Jane was so apprehensive lately, but it needed to stop. Then an idea struck her. “Did you just read that new shilling shocker novel that Harriet sent to you from London?”
“Yes. But, I--” Jane began.
“Shh,” Imogen hushed. “Therein lies your problem. You have been staying up late reading in bed, have you not? And to waste such a gifted mind on such rubbish!”
Jane meekly nodded at the loving correction. Imogen smiled at the young girl and gave her an impish wink. Jane was only sixteen and still very impressionable. Harriet loved to exploit the youngest Drake’s fancies by giving such gifts. Satisfied that her sister’s fears were for naught, Imogen relaxed.
“You had best be careful speaking of such things, especially to mother. She will have Reverend Campbell here in an instant to exorcise this house from demons.” Imogen paused to stare with wide-eyed impishness. “Can you imagine such a thing? The Scotsman would--”
“Gennie, please,” Jane broke in before her sister could say aught that would insult the poor vicar. “He is a man of God.”
“He is a self-righteous prig who I believe is taken to drink.” Imogen’s prettily coiffured hair tossed around her head in gentle, dark curls. The fine muslin of her blue and cream gown swished as she moved past her sister to the sideboard.
Seeing the customary tray of pastries her parents had the servants set out for breakfast, she ignored the stacked plates, chose a pastry and took a bite, leaning over the tray and using her gloved hand to catch any crumbs that fell. Jane frowned and turned her head away.
A maid rushed forward, shaking her head. The servant
grabbed a plate, she held it under the crumbling pastry. Imogen sighed. With a heavenward roll of her eyes, she relinquished the pastry to the fine china. The maid rushed the plate to the table, pulling back a chair for her mistress. Imogen dusted her gloves and waved the woman away with an annoyed toss of her hand. The maid backed from the room with a polite curtsey.
“Gennie,” Jane said when they were once again alone. “Please, you must believe me. There was a child in my chamber yestereve. I could hardly sleep from the fright of it.”
“Oh, my most prudent sister, I would believe you if the idea were not so fantastic a notion. But I think I would be more apt to believe you if you told me my horse grew another set of legs over night. This house is not haunted. And, hate the isolation of Rothfield as I do, I cannot give credence to such a conjecture.”
“You think me a silly girl, do you not?” Jane asked.
“No, sweet Jane,” Imogen answered. She smiled tenderly, a look saved only for her sister. Jane was her truest friend.
Viscount Sutherfeld, their father, had moved his three daughters far from London and the influence of high London society, believing it had been breeding insensible ideas into the girls’ heads. The middle sister, Harriet Drake, was the first to protest to their Aunt Mildred so that the old woman took pity and invited her to stay in her home in London. Once a month they would receive a dutiful letter from Harriet gloating about the fine society she was keeping and her hopes of snagging a suitable and reliably rich husband of consequence. The thought brought a frown to Imogen’s features. Jane looked at her in worry.
“I do not think you are silly,” Imogen asserted. “I think you are bored, as you must be in such a place as this. Too bad a regiment of soldiers will not come to stay in Haventon so that we might for once give a suitable ball.”
“I do not mind it so much,” allowed Jane softly She had only been out for one season. That one season was enough to convince the littlest Drake she would much prefer to stay in the country. Scratching thoughtfully at her mousy brown hair, she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “I should not like it with Aunt Mildred. I do hate having to make conversation with such men as are at balls. I never know what to say to them, and they never seem to be listening to me unless I speak of you or Harriet.”
“You do say the strangest things,” Imogen mused.
Deciding it best to change the subject, Jane forgot about her ghosts for a moment. “You look very prettily done up, Gennie. Is Mr. Tanner coming to call on you?”
“Yes.” Imogen smiled, instantly forgetting her depression with the name of her most gallant suitor. Sighing, she thought of his dark blonde hair and laughing brown eyes. Her Edward was always in such fine spirits that it was impossible to think of anything contrary to happiness. “He is. I am sure that he will seek permission of father soon. And, though he does not have a lot of money, I think with my dowry and his smart investing we will be reasonably well off. Already I have expressed my desire to go to London and Bath. I have it on good authority that he might have expectations of his own, though he would not tell me the exact details.”
Jane tried to smile, but couldn’t. She did not want to think of Imogen leaving her. “And what of the Colonel? He seems very smitten.”
“Colonel Wallace?” shot Imogen in surprise. Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Please, Jane! Whatever made you think of the Colonel?”
“It is just when you were sleeping this morning he came to visit with father. I do not flatter myself that he came for me,” said Jane. Imogen did not see her sister’s jealous blush as she turned to glance out the side window overlooking the front drive of the house. The long, straight graveled road disappeared into the distance, hiding all of their neighbor’s homes from sight. Along each side of the drive were numerous shrubs, sculpted to perfection.
“Is he still here?” Imogen asked, hating that she might be forced to entertain the quiet man. He was as sparing with his smiles as he was his praise. She should abhor such a man as he for company, let alone husband. The only thing recommending Colonel Wallace besides the fact that his uncle was the owner of Rothfield Park, and in essence their landlord, was that he was rich in his own right. Once the Colonel’s uncle died, he would come into even greater wealth. But what was wealth if it brought with it no happiness? She shivered.
“No, I believe he must have gone away by now. But father wished me to send you to him when you were of a mind to come from your room. I suppose I should have told you right off, but I wanted you to myself before he put you in a mood.”
“It is not father who I find to be disagreeable. It is mother.” Imogen grimaced naughtily as she walked past her sister to the large paneled doors. Resting her gloved hand on the mahogany, she grumbled, “Too bad she could not have gone to London with Harriet. Mayhap, you should speak to her and get her to go. I should like the country better if she were not in it.”
Jane did not bother to scold. Instead she smiled. Her eldest sister and mother were rarely on speaking terms. It was not unusual for sennights to pass with nary a word uttered between the two. Imogen turned around to face her.
“If it would please you, we can exchange rooms. I swear I have never heard so much as a single moan in my chamber,” Imogen said.
Jane’s eyes lit up. “But that is because my room is in the section of the house that was rebuilt after the fire. I am sure something tragic happened that night. I would very much like to help the poor child.”
“Nonsense.” Imogen refused to pay heed to such things as ghosts. “But, we will trade, if it will help you to sleep easier.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Imogen nodded, forgetting the bothersome business as soon as she left the dining room.
Rothfield Park was an old estate, having been renamed for the Marquis of Rothfield who, in some sixty years past, had restored and expanded the estate to one of grandeur and good taste. Soon after having finished the very last detail of the very last room, however, a fire had mysteriously started and burned down a good section of the house. The flames were said to have killed a few servants and a child. It was also rumored that the meticulous Marquis went mad at having all his work destroyed and soon after died himself, leaving the estate and title to a cousin--Colonel Wallace’s uncle.
No wonder Jane believes this house haunted, thought Imogen in hard-pressed amusement. She barely gave credence to the story of the house. She assumed it was exaggerated for the sake of bored country folk. How else are the good people of Haventon going to get the high society of London to visit them way up north in the middle of nowhere?
Still, even Imogen had to admit that, for the generously lenient price they paid for the letting of the house, it was a wondrous home. She could not understand why the Marquis would have built it in such an area, but nevertheless appreciated his eye for fine detail, from the tall white walls of the main hall, trimmed and outlined with fine mahogany, to the expansive archways and shutters of the same wood, to the pristine marble floors of the adequately sized ballroom. Only a few of the pieces of furniture had arrived with the Drake family, the aged lines oddly out of place with the fine, understated elegance of the furnishing that belonged with the house. The gentle curves of the Rothfield furniture collection were of an older style, not the fine Palladian style of modern day, but were still very gracious and befitting of a great estate. Rich tapestry lined the chairs and settees.
Candleholders and fireplaces, sweeping draperies and finely paned windows, all graced their proper places, and strewn along the carved stone mantles and wooden tabletops were an immense variety of vases, sculptures and clocks. Large portraits of people and dogs lined the vast walls, hung on damask and Genoa velvet. Their clothing was antiquated and their faces unrecognizable so that Imogen found they were hardly worth looking at except out of boredom.
Along the east wing were the bedrooms, each large and fine to behold. Imogen imagined that they were not so fine as they should have been, belonging to a Marquis, but they were well enoug
h for the Drake family’s needs. The bedrooms had fireplaces and huge four poster beds, potted plants and sturdy furniture. Drawing rooms and dressing rooms adjoined each one.
The house was built in the shape of a ‘U’, with a paved courtyard and working fountain in the center. Beyond the house were the dense woods fanning in one direction--great for hunting deer her father claimed, though he never hunted--and cutting through the woods was a stream.
Between the house and woods were beautiful landscaped gardens, not so well manicured as one would desire, but adequate still. There was a beauty to the untamed vining of roses in the spring and summer, and to the broken cobblestone pathways that led around the grass covered grounds, turning to earthen byways as they twisted through part of the woods. There, various plants and flowers grew--some of them wild. Their bright colors dotted the land and added sweet fragrance to the air.
Often in the morning hours the land would look foggy with an early mist that gathered in the night. It was not so unusual an occurrence since they were so close to Scotland. However, the mist only added to the servant’s superstitious fears and often they would warn about venturing out in it too late at night or too early in the dawn. Imogen laughed at such warnings, shaking her head in tolerant bemusement.
Turning her steps to the library where her father could usually be found, Imogen took a deep breath and patted her hair. As she reached for the door, it opened. To her dismay, she came face to face with Colonel Wallace. Realizing he saw her, she curtsied. Her gaze barely moved over his rigid face and what Imogen believed to be a constantly disapproving countenance.
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