Fair Maiden

by Cheri Schmidt

  He didn’t actually know, and didn’t know how to even begin to explain it, so he attempted another approach. “It’s not sorcery, darling, it’s science.”

  After another long and confused gaze into his eyes, she turned her attention back to the gramophone.

  “Shall we dance?” he asked, trying to remind her of the reason he’d put music on in the first place.

  The ghost took another peek into the brass horn and then faced him. “Oh, yes please. The…what did you call it?”

  “The waltz.”

  Christian reached for her, but then became worried. How could he lead her when he could not touch her? She smiled, stepping into his arms and settled one hand over his shoulder and the other above his extended palm just as he directed.

  Watching carefully, he placed a hand at her waist to complete the feigned hold, attempting to not pass it through her body.

  Still, he wondered how he was going to actually guide her without pressing on her back. “Hmm, are you familiar with the basic steps? I don’t recall the history….”

  When she stared back at him, pinching that bottom lip of hers between her teeth, he knew she either didn’t know it, or simply couldn’t recall. And a Viennese was plainly too fast for him to tutor her. He stepped away from her, and dropped his arms, apologizing with his gaze. “Let’s try an ordinary waltz. The tempo isn’t quite so quick,” he said, moving back to the gramophone to select a more appropriate tune.

  As the next arrangement began, he said, “Now, I suggest you watch first, so that I may demonstrate the steps. Then we’ll try it together.” He lifted his arms as if he were holding her and began to count as he waltzed through a circle around her.

  He stopped, then said, “Ready?”

  Again stepping into his hold, she smiled and released her bottom lip. “Ready.”

  “One two three, one—” He began and then halted when he could see and feel that they were not moving as one, and they were drifting right through one another. “Oh, dear.”

  “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “I—well, no, not exactly. It’s simply—” He exhaled. His irritation was with himself, and the fact that he couldn’t actually touch her. How was he to instruct? Then an idea came to him. “How about this? Watch my chest, and that should alert you to my next move.”

  She nodded, wide eyed, innocent, and eager.

  They began, again with him counting. And this time, it worked. Mostly. She was able to keep track of his guidance by watching his chest, though she did take a few peeks down at his feet to maintain track of their movement as well. She squealed with delight. “Oh! Such fun! Is this what you do when you go to London?”

  “This is a favorite pastime of the ton.”

  “The what?”

  “Ah, of course you don’t know what that is. The ton is the upper class of English society, the fashionable scene in London. Vogue London. In truth, I try to avoid the gossiping, judgmental lot.”

  “Why?”

  “They can be quite unkind and shun you from parties if you do not behave as they expect. Even having you here alone with me would be looked down upon.”

  “Does my being here cause a problem for you?”

  “Certainly not, you’re not—” He cleared his throat of the last word. Not wanting to say it like that and upset her. Again.

  After a long pause, she said, “It sounds like court.”

  “Have you been to court?”

  She frowned. “I—do not recall.”

  For a moment he hoped this would give him a clue as to who she was. She could be titled if she’d been to court, but she could have also been a lady’s maid and still gone to court. Again, this proved little either way.

  “There are other dances I could teach you.” He hoped that she appreciated his efforts to change the subject.

  She beamed up at him. “Could you?”

  Christian grinned back and switched the music again.

  When she’d retired for the evening, he still wished to see her room, but had remained in a foul mood, and asked to view it later. As she left, his gaze fell to the soirée invitations again. What a mess.

  He went over his ledgers to see how long he could drag this out financially. Not long.

  Chapter 7

  Vision

  In the days that passed she’d conversed with Jackson and Christian enough to get to know both of them quite well. The three of them had agreed that perhaps she should not show herself to the other servants. Mainly because Jackson said the cook was too superstitious and would not likely react well. And since the others held her opinion in high regard, they reasoned that none of them should know about the ghost dwelling with them in the castle.

  She did not feel as sad as she had before, but remained frustrated with her situation. And she could not see a way of changing it. She took one look at the missive on her bed and reminded herself that she was loved, even though she did not know who loved her enough to tell her in such a way. But also could not help but wonder how she was in danger, and by whom. The witch’s words lingered in the back of her thoughts and simply would not relent.

  With a sigh, she shifted to the looking glass on the wall again. She still wore the same dress, with the same veil, and the same ribbons tied in her hair. She’d tried to change her appearance with thought, but could not seem to manage that. She could glide through solid objects, she could hover above anything, and move and lift things with nothing more than her mind, but she had limitations beyond that.

  It was difficult to look at herself, not knowing who she was, not knowing her own name. “Why am I here?” Tears sparkled in her green-eyed gaze. “Please, who am I?”

  She got the sense that she was being watched again, and gasped. She turned to see that no one else was in the room, and her door was tightly closed. She returned her gaze to the mirror and shrieked when she saw two faces looking back at her. Whilst the man and woman were smiling, their eyes expressed a deep sadness. And, to her surprise, the woman looked like her…. “Mama?” she whispered.

  The lady with golden hair and green eyes nodded, looking very pleased. She looked at the man, and then addressed him, “Papa?”

  He beamed at that and nodded eagerly.

  “Help me! Who am I?”

  They both frowned, her mother blew a kiss, and then their images vanished.

  “No!” she reached for the glass and pressed her hands against it. She felt resistance just as she had with the invisible barrier outside. “No! Come back, please,” she sobbed.

  She waited, and waited, and when they did not return she decided to go find Christian. She wanted to talk to him about this, and knew he was in his bedchamber.

  “Christian?” she called through the wooden door, hoping he would be able to hear since she was unable to knock.

  Moments later, the door opened partway, and a bewildered Christian peered out. “Princess?”

  “Do you have a moment? Could I speak with you?”

  “Of course.” He swung the door wider and motioned for her to enter.

  She laughed. “I could have gone through it, silly.”

  “Now, now, you mustn’t deny me a chance to be a gentleman.”

  “Very well.” She lost her train of thought when she viewed that he wore only trousers. “Forgive me. It seems I have interrupted your bedtime ablutions.”

  And apparently, he only then noticed his naked chest and reached for his shirt to shove his arms into the sleeves. He did not bother with the buttons, and she remained distracted because of it. “Come, princess, tell me what troubles you.” He reached for her hand then, but pulled back when he apparently recalled he could not touch her. He did that a lot, reached for her like that. She realized he felt like she was real, and the idea cheered her.

  “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the spot on the mattress next to where he’d just settled.

  She glanced nervously around the room, and noticed the only other place to sit was in the single chair next to his fir
eplace. She did not know why, but she instinctively suspected it may not be appropriate for her to join any man on his bed.

  It seemed he realized she was thinking this because of her hesitation. “It’s all right. You’re safe with me,” he said, with a gentle tone.

  After another pause on her part, she finally resigned and drifted toward him, then turned and settled above the bedcovering as though she were seated. He looked at her, waiting. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m well, I suppose…but I think I must be seeing things.”

  His eyebrows rose. “What did you see?”

  “I was peering into the looking glass in my chamber, and I thought I saw my mother and father looking back at me.”

  Christian’s brows nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You saw them looking back at you in the reflection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your parents? How do you know that’s who they were?”

  “When I called them Mama and Papa, they smiled and nodded, and the lady looked like me.”

  “Take me,” it sounded like a command as he shoved his open hand toward her again.

  Unable to resist, she stretched her hand to his, then watched as hers passed through his. He frowned and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry. It seems I keep forgetting that you can’t…. Would you please take me to your room?”

  Nodding, she moved from the bed, slid toward the door and passed through it.

  “Wait!” she heard him call as he wrenched the door open and stumbled into the hallway. His shirt flew open with his movement and she got another look at his muscled chest.

  She smiled and turned to lead him to the end of the passageway where her door was; glad she could not blush, for she would have been bright red.

  When they reached it, he looked dumbfounded. “I only see the stone wall.”

  “There is a door here. I can see it.”

  “Can you open it?”

  “Yes,” she said as she focused on the handle and made it turn downward. The door opened with a click and a squeak as the hinges twisted.

  He gasped because he could now see into the hidden chamber. “May I?” he asked before attempting to enter.

  “Please.”

  Christian stepped inside and tugged one hand through his brown waves of hair. “Are those alive?”

  “The butterflies?”

  “And the fireflies.”

  “They look alive to me,” she replied. “What do you see?”

  “I see living vines, and insects adorning the canopy.”

  He strode to the bed and his eyes fell on the parchment. When he reached for it, she shrieked and he nearly fell over backwards. “Mercy, girl! Don’t frighten me so.”

  “Do not touch it!”

  “Why not?”

  “It nearly crumbled away when I tried to move it.”

  “Oh,” he said, tipping his head to the side as he read it. “My apologies.”

  “It-it is all right. I suppose,” she replied as her panic settled.

  “‘You are loved.’” He read more to himself than to her. “Fascinating. Is this for you?”

  “I believe it is.”

  After perusing the rest of the chamber, his gaze moved to the looking glass and he stepped toward it. “You saw your parents here?”

  “Yes.” She moved closer beside him, and then wished she had not. In the reflection, she could see herself with him, and the sight made a lovely couple. Her sadness and loneliness returned with crippling strength.

  He noticed the change in her expression, and said, “What makes you sad, princess? I don’t like seeing you so distressed.”

  She was unable or unwilling to answer that. There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, but knew she could not. She could not tell him she was lonely, and that she deeply wanted to be the bride she was dressed as.

  “Can you see your parents now?” he asked softly.

  Her gaze lifted to the mirror. There was the sense that someone was watching, but she could see naught more than herself and Christian. “Mama? Papa?”

  Nothing….

  “Perhaps it’s because I’m here.” He stepped outside of her chamber and called back to her through the opening. “Anything now?”

  She looked again, and then shook her head. “Still naught.” Frustrated, she twisted away from the looking glass.

  Christian returned. “Princess.” He lifted a hand as if he meant to direct her gaze toward his by touching her cheek.

  She complied without actually feeling his touch, wishing she could feel it.

  He placed curled fingers under her chin. Her chin tipped upwards reflexively. “Hmm,” she murmured, unable to say much else. It was overwhelming to have him this close—and still completely out of reach.

  But he remained speechless as he attempted to slide his thumb over her cheekbone. Then her eyes widened when his lips descended over hers.

  She wanted to weep, because she felt nothing but a slight tingling on her mouth.

  “Oh, now, please don’t cry,” he said, pulling away.

  She’d not realized she was weeping until she saw the sparkling tears drop onto his open shirt. Then she gasped when there appeared to be real moisture sopping into the fabric.

  He followed her look of shock and touched the wetness. “What?” he asked in bewilderment.

  “Is it wet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could it have come from somewhere else?”

  He looked around for any possible source, and then, seeing nothing, he said, “We need that witch back.”

  “But she said she could not help. She said I was in danger.”

  “I’ll write her first thing in the morning.”

  “I-I do not want her back.”

  “Now, princess, don’t—”

  “Please, may we see if we can solve this without her?”

  He paused, considering. “Very well, but if we can’t discover anything new, I wish to contact her.”

  She nodded.

  Then his gaze shifted to her neck and his expression changed. “What is that?”

  “Hmm?”

  “That purple mark on your neck.” He lifted a hand and traced the backs of his fingers over her ghostly form, along the side of her neck, over the curve and down to her shoulder.

  She turned to the mirror.

  Then she could see it. An oval shaped, purple and bluish mark discolored the flesh of her neck; right at the place her neck meets her shoulder. “I do not know what that is. A birthmark, perhaps?”

  After she twisted to face him again, he leaned over her shoulder for a better look at it. Then Christian’s gaze narrowed and turned suspicious as he lifted his brown eyes from the offending blemish. “That is no birthmark,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “What is it then?”

  Her question went unanswered. “Now I wonder how you managed to get that.” An accusation this time?

  “What are you saying? I do not recall—”

  He laughed, a bitter sound. “You don’t remember? The fool must have been a lousy lover for you to not recall gaining such a mark.”

  Confusion pulled through her like a living emotion. “I do not know what would cause such an injury.”

  “It’s a bite.”

  “From teeth—?”

  “Miss.” She did not fail to catch the demotion in her title. “This is not an injury from teeth, but from lips. You’ve been marked by a man, and quite passionately, if I am not mistaken.”

  A choking sound came out of her. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s a love bite,” he bit out tightly.

  “A-a what?”

  “A bite from a lover, from—”

  “But, it cannot be.”

  “The rake touched you before the wedding!”

  “Oh, I do not think—”

  “Or you! The lack of vows does not stop all ladies from—” When those words wrenched a desperate cry from her lips he cut them o
ff as if he suddenly thought better of it. He paused to consider her distressed expression, then it seemed his emotions shifted from wrath to compassion. “No, that can’t be it. He must have ravished you. Or another man did, and the groom killed you because of it. Either way, he deserves to be shot! No” –his expression turned menacing— “definitely something much more painful and slow…”

  She crumpled. He tried to catch her, but she slipped through his fingers like mist as she sank to the floor. “I do not like where this is going,” she muttered on a trembling breath.

  As Christian knelt over her, she could see that the anger had completely melted away, and he looked worried. “Please forgive me for my thoughtless words. You’re too delicate for these harsh realities, and I should know better by now.”

  She could not stop the sobs, and knew tears rolled down her face again.

  “I don’t care if you were forced—” he said.

  “Forced?”

  “Yes, you must have been—”

  “No! Do not say that! It cannot be! Get out!”

  “Darling, I can see I’ve bungled it again—”

  And since he would not leave, she did. Right through the floor.

  She returned when she knew he’d left. And she made certain to shut the door behind her.

  The constant weeping would not halt because horrible images plagued her thoughts as they returned to the first concerns about how she’d died. Was her death so horrible that she could not or would not remember it? And now this—this horrible bite—could that too be a nightmarish memory she’d forced herself to forget to save herself?

  As she hovered above her bed, she then wished so badly she could snuggle into the satin sheets; smother her fears and worries with layers of downy silk and pillows. She curled up over it instead, and let the emotions sweep over her. “Why must I end every day in tears?” she whimpered.

  Then answered her own question. Probably because that is what ghosts are best at, being miserable…and, no doubt, due to a miserable past.

  She cried until morning.

  Chapter 8

  Fool

  Again, he’d upset her. And he knew this time it was far worse than his previous slips of the tongue. He did not regret the kiss, but the lovely specter was even frightened of thunder, and he’d emotionally bludgeoned her. First he’d accused her of being a tart, then he’d stirred up worries about terrors that should never be mentioned.