Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  “It’s not like that,” he protested in despair. He wanted to hold her. His hands reached out to her to plead for understanding. “Please understand.”

  “I understand completely. You saw the opportunity to mingle with the living girl, take advantage of her,” she spat. “And there are no consequences for you, are there? But what about me? I am ruined for any other man.”

  Ruined because I can never love any but you, she added silently. Why did you have to make me love you?

  “Imogen, no, I wanted to be with you. I still want—” Dougal again reached out to hold her. Seeing her pain, none of his other excuses mattered. He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to turn back time to when he was alive and take her with him. He wanted Imogen and Margaret to be his family. If only she had been his wife, then his life would have been a truly blessed one.

  “Stay away from me. Get out of my house!” she yelled, pulling farther away as he advanced on her. “You don’t live here anymore. I would that I had never met you or any of your kind. And my one wish is that you could make me forget it all! Take it back. Take all of it.”

  “No, wait, you must listen to me. If you believe that you can feel me, you will. Here take my hand. I’ll tell you everything,” he pleaded. “You must try.”

  “How often have you done this over the years? How many of us has there been?” she questioned. Anger and hurt seeped in every hurtful word. “How many have you made fall in love?”

  “No one, Imogen, I swear it,” he answered. “You are the first one to touch me since my death. And it is because you believed me to be real. I am real. Believe in me again. Take my hand in yours. Let me explain. I will tell you everything.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she whispered. “I want you to leave me alone.”

  “No, Imogen,” Dougal beseeched. A frown of worry fell over his face. “Do not send me away.”

  “Go away,” she said loudly. “Just go away.”

  Dougal watched her. Imogen lifted her chin in determination. Slowly, he nodded his head. Sorrow poured from his tortured gaze, as he whispered, “As you wish.”

  Pain crossed over his features mirroring her own. Deliberately he faded until he disappeared into air.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard him whisper as he left. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Dougal,” she began, but it was too late. He was gone. “I’m sorry, too.”

  Imogen did not try to call him back. She knew what she did was the best for both of them. She could not waste her life pining for a dead man. And he could not wait around for her to grow old, meddling in her life whenever she might try to seek happiness with a man who could hold her. Imogen didn’t want to think of other men now. Her heart belonged to one. One she could not have.

  Where she thought there could be no more tears, a dam broke in her heart. Keeling over to her knees in pain, she lay helplessly on the patterned rug, wailing her agony into the leg of her father’s chair. And when the sobs subsided enough to allow her breath, she whispered to herself, “Forgive me, Dougal. I love you still.”

  * * * *

  Reverend Stillwell flipped through the pages of his texts, searching for anything that might comfort those under his care. Dust drifted around him as he looked. There was nothing new that he had not already learned long ago.

  Glancing up in surprise as a flicker washed over his candle, the good vicar looked up from his studies. Dougal appeared before him. Instantly, he saw the tortured lines and pallor of the Marquis’s face. Standing, the reverend closed his book. Dougal looked around the sparsely decorated square chamber in the back of the old church before speaking.

  “Imogen knows about me,” Dougal said. “She discovered the truth somehow.”

  “Then she told you what happened in the forest?” asked the vicar.

  “No, she still refuses to remember that much,” Dougal said. He crossed over to sit on the man’s bed. “I have lost her. I have failed Margaret yet again.”

  “What happened?”

  Dougal quickly explained most of what had transpired in the library, leaving out the details of their intimacy. Solemnly, he added, “She commanded me away from her. I cannot appear to her so long as she refuses to see me. She would not believe in me enough so that I could touch her.”

  “Keep trying, perchance she will come around.” The vicar sighed, moving to look out the narrow slit of his window. “I will see if I can visit with her.”

  “There is more,” Dougal said quietly

  “More?”

  “I’m in love with her. But after I find Margaret, I will have nothing more to offer her.” Dougal swallowed. Closing his eyes to the pain, he whispered, “I have nothing to offer her now.”

  The vicar opened his mouth to protest, but the Marquis faded from his chamber. The reverend watched for a moment, hoping Dougal would come back. When he didn’t, the vicar sighed and moved back to his work with renewed purpose.

  Chapter Ten

  Imogen rushed through the dim hallway, unmindful of the late hour or the presence of those whom she might awaken. Her loud footfall clamored, pounding an even rhythm over the manor. A happy grin formed on her face. It exploded over her features. For the first time in nearly two weeks she was happy. The sorrows of her familial ostracism were about to be lifted. Jane was home!

  Imogen threw open her sister’s bedroom door with a flush of excitement. She did not bother with knocking, too eager to be swayed by such a task. Her cheeks were tinted pink with the efforts of her run. Instantly, she saw her sister unpacking the contents of her trunk onto her bed.

  At the noise, Jane dropped her folded gown to the floor and spun around in white-faced surprise. Gasping, she lifted her hand to her throat, taking an involuntary step back. She tried to calm herself as she stared at her sister’s form in the doorway.

  “Jane!” shrieked Imogen happily. She rushed forward. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Imogen,” gasped Jane with a frail gesture of helplessness. She shook her head to clear her mind.

  “Why, sister,” admonished Imogen. “You look as if you have seen a ghost. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  Jane giggled nervously. “Of course I’m happy, Imogen. You did give me a start. Being back in this room I didn’t know what to expect and you made quite a noise.”

  “You should have known I would come straight away,” scolded Imogen with a lighthearted grimace. Her fondness for her sister shone too brightly for Jane to take offense. “Seeing you back, I feel more like myself. You cannot imagine how lonely I have been.”

  Imogen leaned over to kiss Jane on the cheek before patting it. Jane fidgeted nervously, her gaze darting to the floor. Imogen smiled fondly at her little sister, eyeing her from head to toe. Then, moving to sit on the bed, Imogen exclaimed, “I swear you have grown! Look at you! It appears as if Harriet got her claws into you and took you shopping. I wish I could have been there.”

  “Oh, yes the gown,” mumbled Jane, looking down at herself. Self-consciously, she tugged at the low neckline of the green bodice trying to pull it up. Then with a delicate shrug, she opted for grabbing a shawl. Wrapping it over her shoulders, she said, “Harriet insisted that… well… I—”

  “You look beautiful,” Imogen said, liking the way Jane’s features colored with the praise. “I am quite envious of you. I have been so pale and sickly of late.”

  “How I have missed you,” sighed Jane, changing the subject with grace. She moved to sit by Imogen on the bed and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Imogen, thinking of her mother with a grimace. Seeing Jane’s forming frown, she forced a smile. “How was London?”

  “You know about London?”

  “Yes, I saw your carriage pull away when you left. Mother told me where you were going. Well, she didn’t exactly tell me. She and father aren’t talking to me these days. They’re still upset at me for my impudence
.” Imogen waved her hand as if it didn’t matter.

  “Yes, I know,” replied Jane. “They took it pretty hard.”

  Imogen wrinkled her nose. If she thought of it, she would begin to cry. She hadn’t realized how badly she missed everyone. She was so alone at Rothfield. It had been two long weeks since she banished Dougal from her. She had even begun to wonder if she had imagined their short time together. Every night as she stood in her room, looking out her window at the mist, she would start to call out to him. But she held back, knowing that if he was there, then she had best forget him. And if he wasn’t real then it was better she left it alone. The illusion of him having been was better than that of him being a figment of her bored mind.

  “So how was London?” inquired Imogen, standing and moving away to hide her face from view. She didn’t want Jane to see her tears. She didn’t want to admit that her decision about the Colonel’s proposal was wavering. If she couldn’t have love, then what did it matter if she married a tedious man? At least with the Colonel, she would always have Rothfield Park. “What news?”

  “Mother made me go,” explained Jane with a concerned narrowing of her eyes. “She thought it would be good for me. And I must admit that it was.”

  “How so?” Imogen turned to study her youngest sister’s face. “You hate the London season and you abhor high society.”

  “Yes, that is true.” Jane hesitated. “But, Colonel Wallace was there. He was really very nice to me. We spent quite a bit of time together.”

  “Really? You and the Colonel?”

  “Oh, Imogen, you don’t mind, do you?” Jane asked worriedly.

  “No,” Imogen said wryly. “Why should I mind?”

  “Good! I was hoping you harbored no ill will towards the Colonel because we are to be married.”

  “What?” Imogen gasped, taken aback by the news. She shook her head in confusion. Jane and the Colonel? “I don’t believe it. You and the Colonel? Will mother stop at nothing to get him in the family?”

  “Oh, Imogen don’t be so harsh. It was our idea. You see, I love him,” Jane said with a boldness Imogen had never seen in her. Her face positively gleamed with happiness. In light of it, Imogen couldn’t be angry.

  “Then I am happy for you,” answered Imogen truthfully. She ignored the twinge of disbelief at the arrangement and the poking of jealousy that prickled her mind at seeing Jane so happy and in love. She thought of Dougal. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Holding back her tears, she inquired in a low voice, “When is the wedding?”

  Jane did not notice her sister’s discomfort, believing Imogen’s bright smile to be real. “The Marquis—”

  “The Marquis?” echoed Imogen, instantly thinking of Dougal. She pictured him in his silk stockings and powdered wig, standing frozen in his daughter’s ashen chamber. Imogen shivered. Looking around the room, her eyes found the spot where Margaret’s body had lain. The spot was unmarred, repaired to hide the past tragedy.

  “Yes. The Marquis of Rothfield, Wallace’s uncle.”

  “Oh, that Marquis,” Imogen said in disappointment.

  “The Marquis approved greatly of the match. But, unfortunately, he passed away soon after giving his blessing. The wedding will have to wait until after the Colonel is done with his mourning. You aren’t mad that I will be titled?”

  “No, silly girl, how could I be? Please give Colonel Wallace my condolences,” said Imogen, not really paying attention. She crossed over to the window to stare out into the evening.

  “Oh, I will,” Jane hesitated. “Were you terribly upset to hear about Harriet? Is that why you are so sad?”

  “Who said I was sad?” Imogen said breathlessly, forcing a veil over her words. “I am just surprised by your news and so very happy for you. Wait, what about Harriet?”

  “You don’t know?” Jane said, dismayed, not wanting to be the one to tell her sister the news.

  “Know what?” Imogen asked sharply, growing concerned.

  “She and Mr. Tanner ran off to Gretna Green to marry. He was after the family money. It seems Mr. Tanner is a bit of a gambler without a shilling to his name. Father is in London trying to calm the gossip and was quite put out enough to pay off Mr. Tanner’s debts. And, naturally, Harriet could care less about what she has done. It is why they left the manor so suddenly, if you noticed.” Jane stood, rushing over to the window. Forcing Imogen to look at her, she said, “Are you upset?”

  “Harriet and Edward?” gasped Imogen, stunned. It seemed everyone’s lives were working out and she was the only one left alone. All she had was the memory of a man fifty years dead. “How? When?”

  “You’re not upset are you? I know how you favored him,” admitted Jane.

  “No, not at all, I have long stopped thinking of Edward,” answered Imogen, knowing it to be the truth. The only man she could think of was her darling Marquis—her darling dead Marquis. Imogen paled. She forced herself to stop thinking of it. She concentrated on her sister’s words.

  “I am so glad. After your accident—”

  “My accident?” echoed Imogen, drawing around.

  “Yes.” Jane’s brow furrowed. “You remember your accident, don’t you?”

  “Jane, I think you are mistaken. I’ve not met with any accident, save maybe bumping into a table when running in the hallway just now to see you.” Imogen began to feel sick to her stomach. Her head started to throb.

  “Imogen? Are you well? Can I get you something?” asked Jane, beginning to panic.

  “I didn’t have an accident,” Imogen protested in determination, growing loud. Her limbs shook with fear.

  “Mayhap you hit your head too hard and can’t remember,” Jane said desperately. “The doctor said you hit—”

  “My head,” Imogen echoed, reaching to feel her skull. It felt fine to her. “How Jane? How did I hit my head?”

  “You were upset. You went riding in the forest along the shaded path by the stream. Can’t you remember? You were angry at being forced to wed the Colonel.” Jane’s words became a mere whisper. Her face paled as she studied her sister. “You must remember it.”

  “The forest,” murmured Imogen. Her mind pricked with a sound she could not place. Quietly, she said in sudden realization, “Something happened in the forest. That is why he was trying to get me to go there. I must have seen something.”

  “Imogen? Who tried to get you to go into the forest? Father? You make no sense,” Jane said in panic. Imogen stood, moving blindly from the room. Jane followed her into the hall. “Imogen, wait. Let me help you.”

  “I’m sorry Jane,” she called breathlessly. She moved like a woman possessed. “I have to be alone for awhile. I’ll visit you later, I promise. I want to hear all about your wedding.”

  Jane nodded helplessly, not wanting to let Imogen go. As her sister disappeared around the corner, she sighed. Turning back to her trunk, she continued to unpack.

  Imogen rushed through the house, oblivious of the late hour. The long trail of her cream colored skirts whisked behind her in a fleeting whisper. Sweeping to the front door, she threw it open. It was the first time she had braved the night since discovering Dougal’s secret. She could feel a presence beyond the door. She knew what was out in the mist. She knew that spirits roamed the earth at night, claiming the late hours as their own—even if she had not seen those spirits since sending Dougal away.

  Without thought, Imogen ran toward the forest. She did not wait to close the front door, leaving it to hang open. She had to find out what had happened to her.

  The mist grew thicker as she charged around the house. Her steps rushed her over the garden paths. The full moon lit her way. Desperately she ran. Her face began to stream with tears. She had to know.

  Seeing a figure in the darkness blocking her path, she stumbled to a stop. Imogen tripped on her tangling skirts. With a groan, she tumbled to the ground.

  “Dougal,” she began, pushing up from the ground. But, as her gaze focused, she saw it was not he. Bl
ack eyes stared back at her silently, watching as she froze in fear. It was the knight. Gone was his armor, replaced by a tunic and breeches. His thick arms crossed over his chest as he waited for her to stand. Imogen eyed his sheathed sword hanging at his side, the large weapon glittering dangerously. Her heart thudded until she felt as if she couldn’t draw breath. Hyperventilating, she stated in dread, “It is you.”

  “Where dost thou think to go, m’lady?” The knight’s voice crackled like the chipping of ice. The wind whipped his hair over his shoulder, the locks the same soulless color as his black eyes. Imogen swallowed, stiff, unable to answer. The knight took a step forward to tower over her. Imogen cringed. Leaning down, the dark knight demanded, “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she stuttered. With a deep breath, she nodded frantically. The knight relaxed as he watched her face. He straightened once more. More pointedly, she demanded, “Yes, I can hear you. Who are you? What do you want?”

  The man studied her carefully before scratching his head in thought. He glanced over his shoulder down the path. A frown marred his features when he turned back to her.

  “He hunts,” said the knight cryptically. “You should begone.”

  “Who?” persisted Imogen as she pushed up on shaking limbs.

  “The forest is no place to be at night,” he stated. He did not move to help her from the ground. “You should go inside where ‘tis safer.”

  “You are the only one to be feared,” countered Imogen, thinking of the child.

  “M’lady?” He tilted his head in confusion.

  “I have to go to the forest,” said Imogen. “Something happened to me there. I must know.”

  “Not now. ‘Tis not safe in the mist. Go in the daylight.”

  “You’re a murderer,” she countered, standing up defiantly. In the moonlight without his beast from hell, the knight didn’t look so scary. “That is why you try to stop me.”