Fair Maiden

by Cheri Schmidt

  Christian did not want to look the fool in front of his sire or peers, but he feared he would not be able to maintain the place and hire the needed servants. And because of that, he worried this castle would fall into disrepair and dwindle under his care if he did not receive the money soon. He knew there was some condition to ascertaining it, but he didn’t yet know what that was. He hoped that his father would send his solicitor quickly to clear up the matter. Until then, there was nothing he could do about it but try and manage with what he did have.

  Footsteps echoed through the people-sparse room, announcing the arrival of his dinner, which he knew would also be sparse since they’d only just returned. But he didn’t mind. “Thank you, Jackson. That will be all for now,” Christian said as the gray-haired, ashen-faced man settled the tray onto the table with a trembling grip that caused the china to rattle.

  “You’re very welcome, Lord Krestly, it is my pleasure to serve you.”

  Christian couldn’t help but smile and chuckle. Just the sight of the man brightened his sullen mood, but, it was the formal address that made him chuckle. Jackson had served him since he’d been an infant. The man felt like an uncle to him and was dear to his heart. Therefore, he did not expect such proper conduct from the loyal manservant, but Jackson had persisted in calling him “lord” instead of “little lad” once he’d been given this castle. “You know there is no need for such formalities.”

  “But I insist, my lord.”

  “Jackson,” he said, his tone a gentle reprimand.

  Jackson waved it away, offered a quick bow, and then shuffled slowly toward the exit. “I insist. Now be a good boy, and eat your supper.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and laughed when that got the reaction he was hoping for: A cringe and another sharp wave of the elderly butler’s hand. “You’re the best, old man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d survive.”

  No, I wouldn’t, Christian thought to himself as he listened to the doors close behind Jackson. Well, at least not as comfortably. And he’d be lonelier than he already was.

  He knew he needed to fill this cold dwelling with the warmth that only a wife and children could provide. His lips cracked a smile at the images that fond thought conjured. The cacophony of a chattering wife with rambunctious youth clutching her skirts would brighten these hollow walls nicely. But the smile slipped, he couldn’t even consider looking for a bride until his finances were settled, and he wondered how long his father meant to torment him. It could take days or months or...who knew? He certainly didn’t.

  His finger hooked around the handle of his teacup, and he sipped at his tea. Chamomile, he thought, and then noted, as the bland liquid warmed his taste buds with temperature and not flavor, that they’d rushed the process a bit. Again, he didn’t mind. Tasteless tea was the least of his worries. He dropped two lumps of sugar into it.

  While the cubes dissolved, he reached for the stale bread brought in from the city no doubt, since Cook truly had not had time to bake it from scratch. Smiling, he broke off a hunk and dunked it into the fragrant hot soup. The ton would frown on him for that, but here, in his home, he could do whatever he liked, even if it wasn’t entirely civilized behavior. There was no one here to see it.

  Spooning up the last bit of potato from the broth, Christian caught sight of movement near the door. He lunged to his feet. A lovely young woman in an exquisite gown was moving across the room to the chair opposite him. Her glide appeared utterly graceful, so much so, that it was unnatural. She then sat down and studied him with the most intense green eyes he’d ever seen. His spoon dropped from his fingers and clattered to the bowl. The impact sent droplets of soup popping into the air.

  He gaped, and she gaped, both of their eyes rounded. It seemed she didn’t expect him to be surprised that a woman he didn’t know sat in his home, at his table. Unannounced.

  He lowered back into his chair. “Excuse me,” –he cleared his throat when his voice croaked— “might I ask who you are?”

  She turned to look behind herself, her eyes still wide. Then, when she apparently saw no one else around but her, she twisted back toward him, and set one hand on her chest, then said in a voice that sounded like a melodic breeze, “Me?”

  “Yes. Are you a guest whom no one told me about?”

  “I, uh…y-you can see me?”

  At that his brows tugged together. Because now that she mentioned it, she did look slightly transparent. He could see the tapestry-covered chair through her bodice. Christian stood abruptly, his chair tipped backward with the sudden movement and rocked to the floor with a loud bang. She’s not solid!

  Jackson opened the door and popped his head inside; clearly he’d heard the commotion. “My lord, is everything all right?”

  Christian held a shaky hand out, pointing in her direction. “Do-do you see?” he sputtered.

  The butler followed the line of his straightened finger and frowned. The ghost looked at the old man as though she prayed he’d be able to see her too. “See what, my lord?” Her face fell. “Is there a rodent? I’ll fetch Nathan to take care—”

  “No, the woman seated right there!”

  Jackson looked again and squinted. “Sorry, no one is there. Son, you must be tired. I suggest you retire early.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it realizing he was the only one who could see her, and muttered, “Yes, thank you for supper. It was divine and really hit the spot. Please tell Margaret for me, would you?”

  “I tasted the tea; surely you’re exaggerating when you say it was divine.”

  Exhaling and reluctant to remove his gaze from the lady, who smiled bashfully, yet pleasantly, Christian addressed the old man. “I’m grateful for the meal; now please deliver my thanks….” He fell silent for a moment as her honeyed tresses were stirred to life from an unseen source. The colored ribbons adorning her curls also drifted with an otherworldly effect. The fabric of her dress moved along with her hair as though a gentle breeze had set upon it. However, he felt no draft that could be causing it, and the windows were tightly shut. Her image shimmered and she was bobbing, as if she were only attempting to create the illusion of actually sitting.

  A ghost. He swallowed and waved a hand in her direction again. “You’re certain you see—?”

  “Nothing, Christian. I’m sorry. It must be fatigue wearing on you. I’ll bring you some warmed milk to help—”

  “No, thank you. I’m too old for that,” he snapped, and then cringed because he hadn’t meant to be so short with the age-frail butler.

  After passing one more nervous gaze in her direction, Jackson nodded slowly, his mouth almost gaping, and then he left.

  Christian scrubbed a hand over his face and wondered what he should do next. He knew troubled thoughts had been taxing him when he’d first sat down to dinner, but he couldn’t recall much else besides his name at the moment.

  She spoke again. “Can you truly see me? I’ve wanted so badly to talk to someone—anyone.”

  “Yes, I can see you. How long have you been here?” He couldn’t believe he was actually starting a conversation with an apparition, pretty though she may be.

  “I know not. I awoke and have been wandering this empty demesne for days now.”

  Nervously, though he tried to hide how nervously, he stepped toward her, took hold of a chair in the middle that was closer to her end of the table, and sat down.

  She may’ve been dead, but she was a breathtaking sight to behold. The candlelight picked out the strands of bright-gold in her hair, and he wanted to touch it, but knew that may not be acceptable. He didn’t want to frighten her, then chuckled internally at how silly it was that he didn’t want to frighten her.

  “You’re the earl?” she asked, and her words brought him back from his thoughts.

  “Yes, my name is Christian.” He knew it wasn’t exactly proper to introduce himself in such a casual way, but the last thing he needed was someone else calli
ng him my lord. “And your name?”

  Somehow, she actually paled at that seemingly simple question. “I, well, I do not know it.”

  “You cannot remember?” This baffled him.

  The ghost shook her head.

  “And do you remember how—I mean, do you recall who—er—” Christian wasn’t sure how to broach the touchy subject of her death. He halted his questions and raked his fingers through his hair.

  “Do you mean to inquire about how I died?” she asked with a tremor in her voice.

  “I suppose, but I didn’t wish to be unkind.”

  “I have been wondering the same thing myself.” That quiver in her voice was also reflected in her bottom lip.

  “You mean to tell me that you don’t know your name, and you don’t know how you…?”

  “Or where I am. I have never been to this castle before, at least not that I recall.”

  “You’re in England, the northern part. And to me you sound English. Your speech is not touched with any hint of an Irish or French lilt.”

  “Oh.” Her face screwed up with a cute frown as she appeared to be considering that. “I-I wish I could remember more.”

  “What can you remember?”

  “I have ideas in my head about inconsequential things, like clothing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She turned away, as though embarrassed suddenly. “Well, I did see your clothing in your wardrobe,” she muttered softly, chancing a glance in his direction, “and it was unusual.” He perceived his smile encouraged her to continue. “I have a vague memory of men wearing different styles.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, men’s…um….”

  “Shirts?” he offered, because she was motioning to her bodice.

  “Yes, shirts were laced. They were not held closed with a row of little, round….” She frowned, apparently not able to find the word she wanted.

  He dropped his chin to consider his shirt. “Oh, you mean buttons?”

  “Is that what they’re called? I do not recollect that, yet I think we had them. But it seems they were used more for embellishment than function.”

  Around a smile, Christian asked, “What else is unfamiliar to you?”

  She glanced toward his soup bowl. “Where is your trencher?”

  “My what?” His grin faltered.

  “Do you not keep your food in a trencher?”

  A trencher? That—those haven’t been used since.... In truth he wasn’t exactly certain when that change had come about. Clearly this spirit came from a time not his own. “We use dishes now and forks and spoons,” he said, mentally trying to pinpoint her origin.

  “What of your dagger?” she asked, giving him another clue.

  “We use knives too, but we no longer eat with our fingers.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze shifted to the doors. “And why do you take repast in this small chamber and not in the great hall? And where is your garrison of knights?”

  “Times are much more peaceful, they’re not needed. And dwellings are no longer built with a great hall.”

  “But this castle has one.”

  “It does, but only because it was constructed many years ago.”

  She looked shocked, then shifted her green eyes to his teacup. “Is that ale you’re drinking, or is it wine in that tiny cup?”

  “It’s tea.” Things had changed considerably since…. Of course people still drank ale and wine, but from her words, he suspected she was from a time quite far back in English past. Then he considered her dress, which appeared medieval to him. It was almost eighteen seventy currently. “It sounds like you’re from the late thirteen hundreds or perhaps the early fourteen hundreds. It’s nearly five hundred years later.”

  She gasped, and her big green eyes got even bigger. “I have not been—I suppose I was sleeping.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like this before. Generally, I think, well, I’m not an expert on the preternatural, but I thought ghosts only lingered if they’d been murdered. Were you murdered, then, not a natural death?” He regretted the blunt question as soon as the words left his mouth, especially when sparkling tears welled up in those emerald eyes and spilled down her pale cheeks. That undid him, and he felt like an utter dimwit. “What a kingly dolt I am! I apologize. I should not have asked that.”

  “I have wondered about that, too,” she said so softly he could barely hear her.

  “You don’t remember in nightmares, or relive…? I thought—”

  “No. My memory in this is quite missing,” she said taking a shaky breath, and he could see she was struggling to rein in her emotions. Obviously, this could be a touchy subject for anyone, in truth.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She met his gaze. “Just talking to you is a delight. Truly, it has been horribly dull here all by myself. I do hope we can carry on?”

  He could thoroughly relate to that. “Of course.” And this would be an interesting change of pace.

  “Thank you.” The look of joy on her sweet face made his heart thump harder.

  There was something about her that stirred tender and deeply buried emotions within his chest. An urgency to aid and comfort her had risen. This poor, dear girl! Yet these emotions were intense enough they also made Christian feel slightly vexed with the idea that perhaps he should not feel such a potent want. This can’t be good, he thought. He shouldn’t be feeling this way about a ghost he could never have.

  Shoving those thoughts aside, he searched his mind for something to talk about, but was suddenly at a loss for words. “I have just gained Krestly Castle. I’m the earl,” he began lamely.

  “I gathered that.”

  Of course she had! He was behaving like a silly schoolboy! “Right. Well, I like to hunt, and ride horses, and fence.”

  She looked at him as if to say, What man doesn’t? And, obviously, if he’d considered what men did in her time, he might not have made the ridiculous comment. Christian couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable when he kept shoving his boot into his mouth like this. Near desperate to make it lighter with humor and sarcasm, he asked, “Do you plan to haunt me?”

  He held his breath until she giggled. The airy sound went right through him, touching his very soul, and then a sheepish smile lifted her cheeks. “I confess I did entertain the idea,” she said shyly.

  He laughed out loud. “Being haunted by a lovely, lady-like you would be quite enjoyable.”

  “Really?” She seemed surprised by his jovial jesting. “What if I’m scary?”

  “Can you be terrifying?” he asked, gently teasing her. He couldn’t imagine this charming girl being anything disturbing.

  “I could try.” But he could see from her innocent expression that she couldn’t think of anything frightening to do right away, until she focused on the candelabra and shifted it toward him. He jumped and nearly knocked over this chair, too.

  “Whoa! All right, I must confess, that was a little alarming.”

  “Really?” She seemed so proud of herself he had to smile.

  “Yes, ‘twas definitely quite a trick! What else can you move? Can you lift things?”

  She stared at his teacup. He watched in amazement as it rose from the table, drifted toward him and then plopped a little too roughly onto the table. Tea sloshed over the lip.

  She gasped. “I-I did not mean to drop it. I’m sorry. I fear I am inexperienced.”

  Chuckling, he waved her words way. “Nonsense. That was fascinating and delightfully entertaining. Do it again.”

  This time she focused on the chair next to him. His eyes widened as it slid back from the table, rose about two feet, and then lowered back to the floor.

  “What a wonderful skill you have. Although, it could be dangerous, if say, you had a knife.”

  A squeak of alarm burst past her pink lips.

  Scrambling to soothe her, he said, “Of course you wouldn’t. I can see you do not have anything that dark within your natu
re—” He cut off his words abruptly because he’d meant to address her by name, but then recalled that he didn’t know it, and she couldn’t tell it to him. Then a thought occurred to him. “The library!”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The library!” He reached for her hand that appeared to be resting on the table and they both shuddered when his fingers passed through hers. He felt an odd tingling sensation, though no substance. And it was warm, not cold like he thought apparitions should feel. “Forgive me—it seems I—”

  She stared at their hands seeming as shocked as he.

  Christian withdrew his hand. “Please, follow me and I’ll show you.”

  He shoved away from the table, rose from his seat, strode to the door, and opened it for her. He then watched in awe as she drifted toward him and out into the hallway, where she immediately turned to face him and said, “You did not have to open the door for me. I could have gone through it. Just as our fingers....” She shuddered.

  “I suppose you’re right, but as a proper gentleman, I’m afraid I must open doors for you.”

  “If you wish.”

  “I insist.”

  Christian couldn’t stop himself from spying back at her as she followed him toward the library. He realized he should have been horrified and alarmed that he had a ghost in his home, and that he could see her, and converse with her. But he wasn’t. Peace and gentleness radiated from this shimmering spirit. He considered himself thoroughly bewitched. She made his worries about money seem inconsequential. His father would give it to him eventually. And this lady served as a fine distraction.

  Chapter 3

  Nonexistent

  Whilst traveling down the wide hallway with Lord Krestly, she could not help but be pleased with how this day was turning out. She’d decided she did not care about being a prisoner unable to leave. With him here, she wanted to stay.

  Finally someone could see and hear her. And she could not help but notice how handsome he was. His wavy brown hair just barely curved over his ears and the back of it brushed against the collar of his…doublet? His features were angular, though not too much. The planes of his cheekbones slid down to a strong jaw which framed lips that were slightly thin, but still becoming. The brown-flecked color of his nearly black eyes was her favorite. Well, besides the distinctive dimple accenting his left cheek that deepened when he smiled. She liked that, too. Or perhaps she favored the fringe of dark lashes that framed those eyes so deep she thought she could drown in the depths of them.