Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  “You don’t even know who I am,” he answered darkly. Her words endangered his resolve. But the truth of what he was, what he had been, outweighed any sentiment she must believe herself to feel.

  “Then tell me who you are,” whispered Imogen. Her lips tried to meet his face as she leaned toward him. Lovingly, she stroked back his hair. “It cannot be as bad as you are making it out to be. I already know you are a poor man without prospect of title or much property of great consequence. If you are worried about supporting me, I shall just have to demand a large dowry from my father. He will curse the both of us but will see how right a match it is. And we can live here if we must or rent a small cottage near London if you would be by the city. I care not where we live—”

  “I am not the man you think I am,” he growled, jerking away. He could listen to no more of her talk. If the situation she believed was real, his heart would have sung with the truth of her loyalty to him and the strength of her feelings. But the world she described was an illusion. Money and property did not matter to a man like him.

  “I know. You are so much more than a tutor. You are kind and gentle and so very honest,” Imogen said. “I did not mean to insult you by my words.”

  Honest? thought Dougal. Honest was the last thing he had been with her from the beginning.

  “I don’t care if you are not a rich man. You are a man and that is what I would have.”

  “What if I told you I wasn’t that man you describe? What if my treatment of you has not been honorable?” he questioned, reaching up to caress her cheek.

  “Oh, but you are honorable. If you don’t see it, I do. An honorable man would not feel such remorse as you feel now.”

  Balling his hand into a fist, he thrust angrily away from her—the truth of what he was on the edge of his tongue. But how could he tell her now? How could he tell her whom he was—a dead Marquis searching for his daughter? How could he say that he believed she was the key to finding the child? How would she react to knowing that he had used her from the beginning, that he manipulated her still? How could he tell her he was afraid what he felt for her came from his own desperation to find Margaret? And if it didn’t, what would keep her from making the same conclusion anyway? These were not questions he could answer. He needed more time, time he did not have.

  “Dougal?” she beseeched with worry.

  “We shouldn’t have come together. It was wrong,” he said at last. Inside his heart broke.

  “It didn’t feel wrong,” she protested, her lips and voice atremble. Tears pooled in her eyes. She wanted to reach out to him, erase his pain, but she didn’t understand where it was coming from.

  “It was,” he said more forcibly. “What happened between us can never be! It was a mistake. We were weak and it will not happen again.”

  “So you just propose to use me and throw me away like a stained handkerchief? I won’t accept that,” she yelled, her lips tight with rage. “I know you feel something for me. Why won’t you face the truth?”

  She ran to him, hitting his arm in frustration.

  He grabbed her about the wrists, shaking her violently to get her attention. “I face the truth? What about you?”

  “What about me?” Imogen demanded incredulously. In confusion, her voice rose. “I told you how I feel for you. You are the one in denial. Tell me you love me. Admit to it!”

  “Love,” he spat. “I speak naught of that.”

  “So you won’t say it?” she said, heartbroken and near bitter defeat. “You are a coward.”

  “Love is not the denial I speak of, Miss Imogen.” Dougal’s grip tightened. Narrowing his eyes into dangerous slits, his face bent towards hers. When he came near, she could smell the hint of mint on his breath as it fanned over her flushed cheek. The power of the light caress along her skin sent prickles of awareness over her, breaking down her defenses as easily as his smile. But he wasn’t smiling. “Why won’t you go into the forest by the stream? What have you to fear there?”

  “What? The forest? I am not afraid of the forest. I have been there countless times. I have waded in the stream. I have ridden my horse endlessly over the pathways. I have fished there and… and picked flowers with my sisters.”

  “When was the last time you went? When is the last time you rode through there?”

  “Last week? I do not remember the exact date,” Imogen stammered, growing uncomfortable. Her temple began to throb, her body to sway. She felt like passing out. Dougal’s grip held fast to her, the sharp sting of his touch keeping her with him. He jerked her shoulders again and again as his words hit harshly upon her.

  “If you are not afraid, then come with me now. Walk with me to the forest and prove it,” Dougal pleaded. Desperation continued to shoot through his very being.

  “I am not the one with anything to prove, Mr. Weston,” Imogen quipped. “Now take your hands off me at once!”

  Dougal realized he held her arm in a bruising grip. Regretfully, he let her go. Imogen stumbled away from him. Accusation dashed painfully from her eyes. Gingerly rubbing her arm, she glared at him.

  “Imogen, come with me,” he begged softly. His eyes turned gentle as he tried to convince her to join him. His fingers reached out to her, bending in as he motioned her to take them. “Just walk with me to the stream. If you do, then we will talk of other things. I’ll say anything you want of me.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” she spat. Leaning over, she grabbed her book. Her body shook with outrage at his callous treatment. She knew he cared for her, not once did she doubt it, but she couldn’t understand why he would try and deny it. “I don’t see what you would say to me there that you have not said to me here and now. And if I get you near water, I just might take it to mind to drown your worthless hide!”

  Furiously, she stalked away. Dougal let her go. There was nothing he could say to stop her. She would have to come to terms in her own time. He only prayed that it wouldn’t be too late.

  * * * *

  The day passed in agonizing slowness. Time did not lessen Imogen’s pain or her feelings of betrayal. She did not seek out Dougal again. The ominous feel of his words disturbed her as they repeated themselves endlessly in her head. What was he hiding from her? What was it she was not supposed to know? And what was his silly obsession with the forest?

  She took out what was left of her burnt letter to Jane and laid it on her writing table. Grabbing a quill, she set to writing to her sister again. Although this time she would be more careful in what she revealed. It would not do for her mother to read aught into it if she intercepted the message.

  The late afternoon fell into the approaching darkness of evening. Imogen hid away in her room, confident Dougal would not seek her there. Not even he would risk being seen coming from her chamber. If her father suspected what had happened between them, he would demand he marry her at the point of his pistol. And she did not wish to gain a husband in such a degrading way. No, she did not need to force a man to be in her company. She would much rather be alone.

  Imogen was watching the sun set in the distance in a display of reds and purples when Charlotte knocked on her door. She bid the serving girl to enter with a sad smile. Charlotte bowed silently, setting a tray of food on a table. As she turned to leave, Imogen beckoned, “Wait, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, Miss?” inquired the timid creature.

  “I have a letter that must be delivered straight away. Can I trust you to see to it?”

  “A letter, Miss?” asked Charlotte in surprise. Her eyes narrowed curiously.

  “Yes, to my sister in London.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Thank you.” Imogen picked up the letter from her desk. She handed it over. “I would prefer that no one else in the house knew of it.”

  “Of course, Miss,” agreed Charlotte. “Will there be aught else?”

  “No. Wait one moment, yes, there is one thing,” Imogen said. “Could you make sure that the bedrooms are cleaned and that f
resh linens are put on all the beds before the Viscount and Viscountess arrive home?”

  “Yes, Miss,” said Charlotte. With a dutiful bow she was gone.

  Sighing, she turned back to the window to stare off into the distance. She ignored the tray of food, having no appetite for it, and as she watched the land grow darker, a fear crept over her skin, for the mist came with the night.

  * * * *

  Charlotte fingered the letter she was charged with curiously. She couldn’t read it and could not determine to whom it was made out. It wasn’t her business. She knew that.

  Crossing soundlessly through the hallway, she made her way over to the oldest part of the house. Looking around, she knocked lightly on a tall door. Within moments, it opened. Charlotte curtsied.

  “What is it, Charlotte?” asked Dougal. His eyes were brimmed with red, his face sunken with grief. Stepping aside, he let the woman into his bedchamber. Old, dusty furniture lined the walls. A large antique bed, which had been his in his lifetime, graced the middle of the room. Aged tapestries hung on the walls. In his human existence, he had favored medieval things and had the tapestries made for his home. Along the wall were also sconces for torches. They were not in use, but when he did light them, the room would brighten and the dust would disappear as if he were still alive and lord of the manor.

  “You bid me to inform you if Miss Imogen tried to contact anyone outside the manor.” Charlotte handed over the missive she had been entrusted with. “She gave me this and bid me to tell no one of it.”

  “Thank you.” Dougal’s hand shook as he reached out. He was careful not to touch the maid, knowing his fingers would slide through her like air. He took the letter, threading it with his fingers behind his back. “Was there aught else?”

  “She bid me to have the family’s bed linens changed and their rooms cleaned afore the Viscount Sutherfeld and his wife arrived back at the manor,” said Charlotte.

  Dougal smiled softly at that, thinking of their use of Jane Drake’s room. Sighing, he said, “Do not worry about it. If she asks you, tell her it is done. She will not know the difference. And if she inquires of the letter, tell her it is sent.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Charlotte bowed obediently.

  “You can go. I will deal with this,” he said, holding up the parchment. He waited for her to leave. Then, breaking the seal on Imogen’s letter, he sat down by the fire that burned in his room.

  Dearest Jane, he read. As I endeavor to write this to you, I can only feel sadness at your absence. No doubt mother has expressed her worry of me to all in London by this time. You must not listen to what she says until you have spoken to me. That is what I wish to plead to you. Please, come home, dear sister. So much has happened to me that I do not dare to write about. I can only say with certainty that I need your wisdom and guidance. If you ask her, mother will let you come home. Tell her you wish to make me see reason in regards to the Colonel. No doubt she will be happy to have another ally against me. I wait breathlessly for your return. Imogen.

  Dougal frowned. Wearily, he rubbed his head. Crumpling the letter in one hand, he threw it into the fireplace. He rolled his neck on the high back of his chair, his legs stretched out before him, his gaze focused on the licking flames. This time he would watch to make sure the letter burned completely.

  Sensing the late hour rather than seeing it, he rose from his chair. His hands were steady as he grabbed his jacket off his dusty bed. Shaking it with a hard jerk to free it of dust, he slid it over his shoulders, and, with a weary sigh, he lifted his hand to the fireplace, smothering the flames with the breeze the movement caused.

  The Marquis knew it was time to resume his search—hopeless as it had become.

  Chapter Nine

  Imogen watched the creeping mist as it reached out from the garden, swirling over the yard until it slithered in wispy trails up the side of the manor. Her hand rested against the glass pane, feeling the unusual coolness of the summer night against her skin. She couldn’t sleep, mindful of what stirred out in the darkness. Strangely, she felt no real fear of it, just apprehension over what she witnessed.

  There was movement beyond the windowpane. She couldn’t see it, but felt it as sure as she did the glass. Glancing up at the sky, she saw a swatch of clouds hiding the twinkling stars from view, mimicking the isolating mist on the earth.

  Suddenly, she felt a pull in her mind from outside her bedroom. With a curious melancholy flooding through her, she was induced by a power outside herself to walk to the hall. It was the same feeling that had awoken her the night before, luring her to Jane’s bedroom. She had had the strange suspicion that she was meant to see something. That was until Dougal came and the spell had been broken..

  Her heart began to pound. As she walked down the hall, she realized she was holding a candle. She did not remember lighting it. She had little time to wonder over it as she made her way forth over the same direct path on which she’d been led the night before, past figures shadowed and dark in their paintings, watching her with emotionless eyes. A fog overtook her mind, refusing to let her think or feel beyond a moment. Her heartbeat slowed into a comfortable thud. Her breaths became even and slow.

  Arriving at Jane’s door, she paused. Leaning forward, she listened. She glanced down the hall, waiting for Dougal to come to her. This time her eavesdropping was not interrupted. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the doorknob. The metal turn was solid and real against her palm.

  Imogen paused. The sound of a child’s voice drifted from beneath the thick oak, the song she sang a vaguely familiar tune—eerie and high in its childlike nonchalance. Swallowing, Imogen pushed the door open. Despite the late hour, the room was bright with daylight. She froze in the entryway, bombarded by the heat of the sun. The door continued to swing open on its own. She blinked , adjusting her eyes to the light.

  The chamber was not as it should be. A small bed carved from honey colored wood sat where Jane’s larger one had been, its coverlet decorated with embroidered pink roses. Atop the bed were dolls, too numerous to count. A little table and chair were next to the bed, along with the small trunk of a child. The fireplace stood on a circular platform just as the one in her room did. It was not the square mounted fireplace of Jane’s room.

  Looking out the window, past the rose embroidered drapes, Imogen saw a tree. Its buds were not in full bloom as they should have been, but only showed the beginning signs of spring. The tree should not have been there. The child’s singing became louder and more clear, drawing Imogen’s attention around to the far corner of the room.

  On the other side of the bed, Imogen could see the top of a blonde head. She took a hesitant step forward, instantly recognizing the large curls and yellow dress. The child sang her pretty song, stopping in mid-sentence to hum as she made two of her dolls dance together.

  “Hello,” said Imogen quietly, not wanting to startle the child. The girl did not move. Clearing her throat, she said louder, “Hello. Do you remember me?”

  The child looked up, a pout breaking out over her features. For a moment, Imogen thought the child saw her, but the bright green eyes only looked through her.

  “There now, Lady Margaret,” came a soft scold behind Imogen.

  Imogen jumped at the sound, spinning to look at the door. Near the door stood a portly maid. She placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. Imogen stiffened, realizing that neither the child nor the maid saw her. The maid sighed heavily, moving into the room. She passed right through Imogen, her body disappearing through her front and coming out her back. Imogen gasped, feeling as if nothing more than a chilling breeze passed over her. With a nervous hand to her stomach, which was still solid, she turned around in alarm.

  “Now, Lady Margaret, you know your father is expecting you to be on your best behavior today,” said the maid.

  “I know,” grumbled the child, loath to put down her toys and thus end her game.

  “There now, up off the floor with you. You don�
��t want to wrinkle your new dress, do you?” said the maid. She hauled the child up by her arm and began brushing off her little yellow gown. It was the same gown she had worn when Imogen talked to her in the garden.

  “What is this?” Imogen asked, growing sick. She did not receive an answer. She remembered too clearly the look of the child’s face burnt with fire. Looking around the chamber, she watched for signs of a starting flame. There was nothing.

  As the maid turned to retrieve a stole from Margaret’s trunk, the child wrinkled her nose defiantly at the woman’s back. Imogen suppressed a giggle at the child’s impishness. When the maid turned around, Margaret smiled sweetly.

  “I do not want to wear this dress,” Margaret said with a pout. “I want my green one.”

  “This is the one your father bought for you in Paris,” stated the maid.

  “He cares more about this house than he does for me. I doubt he’d notice if I didn’t go to his fete at all,” Margaret said sullenly. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “How could you say such a thing, Lady Margaret?” returned the maid, appalled. “Never have I seen a father dote more on a child.”

  “He blames me for mother leaving,” Margaret insisted. “That is why he is never home.”

  “You mother leaving had nothing to do with you,” said the maid. She gathered up the dolls and placed them roughly on the bed. Their porcelain heads bounced and clanked before settling over on their sides.

  “I heard them fighting about me. Mother’s furious that father made her have me. She said I ruined her figure and that father destroyed her chance at happiness by moving her out here to the barbaric countryside. That is why she moved away to London.” Margaret did not see the maid’s pained expression as the woman turned her back. The maid sighed heavily in frustration “She told me she would send for me as soon as she arrived.”