by Jane Charles
“He has been me friend since Harrow.”
“Is he dead?” Laura mentally braced herself for the words.
“I don’t know.”
She straightened and took a step toward where the voice was coming from. “What do you mean you do not know?”
A faint image, not so much an outline, but a haze that muted the objects behind formed on the other side of the desk.
“I can’t remember.”
She slammed a hand down on the desk. “I insist you remember, now.”
“I would like nothin’ better than to remember the circumstances that brought me here,” Patrick responded, his voice heated with frustration.
“You don’t know how you died?” Did anyone remember how they died, after they died? Laura had assumed so. But she had also assumed souls went to Heaven or Hell, not linger about influencing novelists. Until now, she believed ghosts were simply figments of one’s imagination, or fanciful notions.
The haze shifted toward the fire. “All I remember is that I was travelin’ here, to give ya a message.”
She grasped her throat and took a deep breath. “What was the message?”
“I don’t know,” he bit out.
“Why don’t you know?” Laura demanded.
“Because I bloody well don’t,” the apparition shouted back. He was becoming more of a fog than a mist.
Laura straightened. “Well, there is no need to yell at me.” Of all the nerve. Didn’t he grasp the urgency of needing to know what had become of her brother? Of course, Patrick was dead, and probably had more pressing issues to deal with, though she couldn’t imagine what they would be.
“You’re bein’ too demandin’,” Patrick argued
“I am not.” She stomped her foot. “I simply want to know what happened to my brother. Is it too much to ask?”
“No,” he answered quietly. The fog crossed the room toward the windows. “I know I was travelin’ with a message to do with Blake.” He shifted back toward the center of the room. “I’ve tried to recall what the message was and what happened, but me mind is blank of anythin’ else.”
She wasn’t certain she had ever heard anyone sound so forlorn and her heart went out to him. It couldn’t be easy being dead or be lacking of memory. Both were wretched circumstances and doubly so when combined. She approached, wishing to offer comfort but it was difficult when one was talking to a thick, white blanket of air. “Perhaps you aren’t my muse after all,” she suggested. “Maybe you are lingering until you give me the message and then you’ll move on.”
“It has occurred to me. But what if I don’t ever remember?”
Laura wouldn’t even consider the possibility. How could she face life never knowing what happened to Blake? “You will remember. But in the meantime,” she grinned. “You can help me write my novel.”
He laughed, a rich, deep sound that warmed her to her toes.
“And perhaps, the memories will return, and we will both have our answers.” Please let it be so. Patrick had to remember, but demanding he do so would not make it happen sooner.
“Very well,” he sighed. “I have no pressin’ engagements.”
How very sad not to have plans laid out, a future to dream about, or a place to be.
“But does it have to be a horrid novel?”
“It is all I know.”
“Then we will write your horrid novel.” The dense mist shifted and bent, as if bowing to her. When he rose, the image became clearer. A man, a head taller than she, with wide shoulders, strong arms, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches. He may not be solid and he was without color, but a man most definitely stood before her, and she had seen him before. Her eyes widened and a chill ran through her body. “What is wrong?”
“I can see you,” she whispered.
Patrick stared at Laura. She was looking right at his face. He glanced down at his hands, but that was of no assistance. They had always been visible to him.
“Lord Patrick Delaney?” She brought her hand up and attempted to touch his cheek. Her fingers slipped through his nose. “I can see you, I can’t touch you.”
He wanted to grasp her hand to him, to feel the caress of another human. Pain stabbed through his heart knowing he would never again experience the comfort of physical contact. She knows me? “We have never met.”
A slight smile came to her lips. “I’ve seen you with my brother. He would never introduce us.”
Patrick frowned, his eyebrows pulled together over the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
“I was young and you wouldn’t want to be bothered with an inquisitive girl back then.”
He chuckled. “When was this?” As he had known Blake fifteen years, Laura would have been five when they had first become friends.
“Last year, before you sailed.”
Patrick pulled back, his eyes widening in surprise. Why would Blake ever think he wouldn’t want to meet his sister? Surely Blake didn’t consider this young woman, who would have been nineteen, a girl, even if she was his sister. In fact, when Patrick thought upon it, his friend had ample opportunity to introduce them. When Blake had wanted him to be present during Laura’s first Season, had he also intended not to introduce them? “Your brother was wrong, Miss Chetwey.”
“Please, call me Laura. It isn’t as if we are in a drawing room or at a ball.”
As he had always thought of her by her Christian name, Patrick was glad strictures of society hadn’t followed him into the afterlife. “I’d be pleased if ya called me Patrick, as well.”
Her smile grew. Laura had a beautiful smile. It went beyond her lips, encompassed her entire face, and her eyes danced with merriment. “I would like that.”
“Do ya truly wish to write a horrid novel?”
“There is nothing else to be done in this old, drafty abbey.”
“Tolbright is not a small village. I am sure there are gatherin’s to attend, shops to visit.” If he recalled, the village on the other side of the forest had every merchant a young woman could desire, and citizens of all ages. Surely she could strike up some friendships.
“I can’t. I am in mourning.”
Patrick straightened. “Who died?”
“Blake.” She looked at him as if he were daft.
More memories niggled at the back of his brain but he could not hold onto one of them. He was certain Blake was not dead, unlike himself. “Ya know this for certain?” he asked slowly.
“No,” she shook her head and walked away from him. “But what else am I to believe?”
Patrick followed her, moved to place comforting hands on her shoulders, but he could offer nothing. To her he was a wisp of air. “I think I started the journey with him and I made it back to England.”
“You did.” Laura wheeled around, hope shone in her eyes. “He could be on his way here, now?”
“No.” Yet, uncertainty plagued him. “We did not return together.” That was the one fact he could grasp.
“You are no help.” Laura threw up her hands and stomped away.
“I’d tell ya, if I could remember.”
She shook her head and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I know.”
“Perhaps the ship I arrived on would have word of your brother.”
Laura turned to him again. “You are right. Maybe he was with you and had to stay in London on business and sent you with his excuses.”
Patrick also knew this was not true. Yes, Blake had sent him. That part rang true. But, Blake was not in London. Where had he left him?
“Laura, dear, who are you talking to?” Lady Torrington stepped into the room and looked around.
Laura looked back and her eyes locked with Patrick’s. She gestured to him.
Lady Torrington scanned the room again. A frown formed on her brow. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps you are spending too much time up here alone.” Again, Lady Torrington glanced to where Laura had gestured. “It is
not healthy to talk to oneself.”
Laura’s shoulders slumped. “I am simply working on my story. . . and wondering what became of Blake.”
“I am sure someone will send word when they know.” Lady Torrington patted Laura’s arm.
“Could you send a note to London asking, please?”
“We did that last week.” Lady Torrington tilted her head in thought. “Or was it two weeks ago?”
“Please, could you once again?” Laura’s voice wavered.
Lady Torrington smiled indulgently. “I will ask your uncle.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, come along, breakfast will be served shortly.” She looked Laura over from head to foot. “And you must get out of those night clothes. It is no way to wander the house.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
Lady Torrington marched out of the room and Laura glanced at Patrick. “I’ll be back,” she whispered.
He bowed. “Take your time, Laura. I have nowhere to be.”
Laura shut the door behind her and Patrick sank down onto the settee. “She could see me. Actually see me.” Though touch was impossible, eye contact and conversation did much to calm him. But how long would she be gone? There wasn’t much to do if she wasn’t here to talk to.
Laura hurried to her room, hoping she didn’t encounter anyone given her state of dress. She clutched the robe tight at her throat, her hands shaking. Had she really just spoken with the ghost of Patrick Delaney, her brother’s best friend? He was more handsome close up than he was from afar when she’d spied him with Blake in the courtyard. It was a shame he was dead. Such a man could make anyone rethink spinsterhood. If there had been more gentlemen like him in London, perhaps she would already be married, with a child on the way. Instead, there were men like Prentice. And though he was handsome and charming in his own right, he didn’t hold a candle to Lord Patrick.
Janie, her maid, was waiting with a dress laid out on the bed when Laura entered her room. “The bath is ready, Miss Chetwey.”
“Thank you, Janie. I had no idea how late it had become.”
“I was wondering where you were when I brought the chocolate.”
A cup sat on the table beneath the window. Laura lifted it to take a drink and spit out the contents. It was already cold.
“I was in the east wing, writing.” She tossed her robe onto the bed. “I couldn’t sleep so I rose early.”
“Very good.” Janie bit her bottom lip and took a step back.
“If you can’t find me again, you can look for me there.”
The maid’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no, Miss Chetwey. I will wait until you have returned.”
Laura wished to assure the maid that the east wing was perfectly safe and wasn’t haunted, but could no longer do so. Though there was no danger in the east wing, it was certainly haunted. Not that Lady Torrington had noticed. Am I the only one who can see Patrick? She reached for the hem of her nightgown and stopped.
Can I always see him or will he be invisible some of the time? She dropped the material and slowly turned, studying the room. He didn’t follow her here, did he?
“Is something wrong, Miss Chetwey?”
Laura focused on the maid and a rush of heat came to her cheeks. “No, I was just thinking about a part of my story.”
“Your water will start to cool,” Janie prompted.
“Of course,” Laura laughed, and entered the bathing chamber. Before she shut the door, she looked around the chamber one more time. He wasn’t there. After shutting the door, she studied the room. If Patrick were here she would know it, wouldn’t she? She strained to see any misting, or anything that disrupted the clarity in the room but saw nothing other than steam coming from the water in the hip bath. Certainly she would at least feel his presence, even if he were invisible. She had felt it as she wrote, before she heard him.
Laura brought a hand to her neck. Had he touched her? “I could have sworn I felt the cool press of lips.” She pulled the nightdress over her head and let it drop to the floor. “Of course, I would know if he were here.”
“What did you say, Miss Chetwey?” Janie called through the door.
“Nothing,” Laura answered back before she sank into the warm water. “I met a ghost today,” she muttered, but not loud enough for Janie to hear. “His name is Patrick Delaney, the most handsome man I have ever encountered.” She hummed and picked up the bar of soap. “After I find out what happened to Blake, I will learn what happened to Patrick. He needs to know how he died.”
Patrick wandered about the room. There was little of interest. Even if he were of a mind to read a book, he couldn’t take one off the shelves. He let out a sigh. “What am I going to do until she comes back? I am shut in this blasted room with nothin’ for entertainment.” He turned and studied the closed door. “Or am I?”
He marched forward and attempted to grab the handle. His hand went through without allowing him to grip. “If my hand can move through this, can I go through the door?”
Tentatively, he pushed his fist through the thick wood. It disappeared, but there was no pain. He quickly yanked it back. It was whole. Or at least as whole as it was before he pushed it through the door. Next he slid his foot forward. It also disappeared before he brought it back.
“Is it possible that I can walk about where I wish?” He leaned forward until he could see into the hall. He turned his head in one direction and then the other before stepping through the door. Excitement bubbled up at his newfound freedom.
Patrick continued down the hall to exit the east wing, noting cobwebs in the crease where the ceiling met the walls, and at the corner of every door. A thick layer of dust covered the floor and what must have been a blue runner, though it appeared more of a dirty gray, with small footprints leading from the entry to Laura’s writing room and back. Someone really did need to clean in here, especially if she was going to be spending so much time in this part of the Abbey. It couldn’t be healthy to breath in such foul air.
At the corner he turned and followed the hall until he emerged from the doorway into a pristine section of the home. The wood floors shone as if they had been polished only moments before. The same could be said for the railing. He leaned forward and looked down toward the entry. Marble reflected tables, flowers and chairs. With the exception of the east wing, Lady Torrington managed an immaculate home.
Instead of descending the stairs, Patrick continued on into the west wing, where the family chambers were located. Blake’s had been the first door to the left, and when Patrick stayed here, he’d been given the room directly across. Between Blake’s former chamber and the ones used by Lord and Lady Torrington at the end of the hall, there were five more chambers. In which one did Laura reside?
Patrick strolled further, stopping at each door to listen. Three doors down he heard voices and strained to make out the words. He couldn’t understand anything so he stuck his head through the door. A maid stood by the bed laying out stockings, chemise and a corset. A drab gray gown already rested across the bed.
“I need to hurry.” Laura emerged from what Patrick assumed was a bathing chamber. Her hair was pinned haphazardly above her head and moist tendrils curled about her face. Her rosy skin glistened with the dampness of just having left the bath and she wore only a towel, wrapped around her figure, concealing only the more delicate portions of her body. Long, shapely legs carried her from the doorway toward her maid. If the towel was a bit shorter, he would be able to glimpse her buttocks. Maybe if she bent over.
It was wrong to watch her, yet Patrick could not pull away. Given how uncomfortable his breeches had become, no doubt he would suffer the consequences. He really should leave before she noticed him.
Laura turned toward him and squeaked. He raised his gaze from her delicate toes, up her body until he looked into her face which possessed the loveliest rosy cheeks.
“What is it, Miss Chetwey?” the maid asked.
Patrick grinned and winked before covering his e
yes with his hand.
“A rodent. I thought I saw a rodent.”
He laughed and returned to the hallway.
“I will dress in private,” she called, loud enough for Patrick to hear through the thick wood.
“Of course, Miss Chetwey.” The maid opened the door and left the room, shaking her head and mumbling to herself. “Too much time by herself. Going daft, she is.”
Laura emerged a few moments later, dressed for the day in that ugly gray gown.
She looked one way and then the next before focusing on him. “Don’t ever come into my chamber again without my explicit permission.”
“I do apologize.”
“I am sure you do.” Laura snorted before she turned and marched down the hall toward the stairs. “I don’t mind you visiting about the house, but I need my privacy.”
“Of course.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
Patrick smiled and followed her down the hall, contemplating the many ways he would gain access to her bedchamber.
Patrick leaned against the window as the carriage drove away. The ladies would be shopping. If he knew anything about women and shopping excursions, he was doomed to an afternoon alone.
He made his way to the stairs and walked to the ground floor. Maids were dusting and sweeping, paying him no mind, of course. He began whistling a tune he learned as a child and watched for a reaction. None of them could hear him. Patrick shrugged and continued on. He was getting used to being invisible. The butler was in the dining room polishing silver and the housekeeper was lecturing a young maid.
“This household is frightfully borin’.”
A knock sounded at the front door and Patrick settled on the steps to see who had come to call. A footman opened the door and allowed three gentlemen to enter. Patrick didn’t recognize them, but why should he? When he visited with Blake, he rarely went into town and the two kept to themselves as boys. As they grew older, friends from school would join them.
“Lord Torrington is awaiting your arrival. I will take you to the library.”
Patrick perked up and stood. He followed the gentlemen down the hall to Torrington’s library and reached the door just in time to have it shut in his face. “Extremely rude of them.”