He burst out laughing. “Oh, my darling, the carpet is the least of our worries!”
“Mr. Bryce! As I was saying: I don’t know what you—”
“Mr. Bryce?” He pulled a face and gently brushed a long tangle of red curl away from her throat and over her shoulder. “Surely, here, in the privacy of your rooms, you may call me by my Christian name?”
“No, I may not. Particularly not here, here in my-my rooms.”
He arched a brow.
“Not even after we shared a kiss?”
“No! It—it would not be right for me to call you—to call you—Christopher.”
His touch lingered at the base of throat, a finger lightly stroking the curve of her neck. “I have waited such a long time to hear you say it that I almost wish it was my true name—”
Mary pulled back out of his reach and looked up at him, momentarily diverted from her present predicament. “Christopher is not—is not your name?”
“It is not the name I was given at birth, the one I had for the first three months of my life, but Christopher is the only name I have ever answered to.”
Inquisitiveness replaced her awkwardness and shock.
“Why don’t you use your birth name?”
“Because that name is Cavendish.”
“Cavendish? That’s not a Christian name.”
“Well, it is mine.”
He’d never before disclosed that piece of his past to anyone, and never inked it anywhere. He had always used the name Christopher because it was what he had believed his name to be. That is until Sir George Cavendish willed him a substantial legacy in the name of Cavendish Bryce and his parents were left no option but to divulge the truth. A truth he was ignorant of and wanted no part of, and which sent him to the Continent searching for answers. But he wanted Mary to know the truth—all of it—and this was the first step.
He also knew family nomenclature was a requisite topic of conversation over tea and seedy cake for those not only related by birth or marriage to the nobility, but any family with pretensions to greatness. And the Cavendish family was one of the first families, and not only was Mary related by marriage to a branch of that illustrious family, her sister-in-law, the present Duchess of Roxton, was a Cavendish by birth. And how did he know this, and more, about Mary’s relations? Kate was an expert on noble family lineages because she had once been part of that world, and thus still corresponded with many of the titled and influential. And because of her infirmity, it had become Christopher’s task to read these letters to her, and so he knew a great deal about Mary’s relatives and connections.
He couldn’t help a smile at Mary’s deepening frown, not surprised she would show interest, and be interested enough in the name of Cavendish to forget her embarrassment at what had just occurred between them. No doubt her mind was mapping an extensive family tree and trying to decide on which branch he sat.
“Were you given it because your mother’s family are distantly related to the Cavendishs?”
“No. Not my mother’s family.” He scooped up her banyan, gave it a shake and held it open for her. “Best keep warm.”
She allowed him to help her into the dressing gown, still preoccupied with this new-found information about his name. She did not wait for him to answer her question, and asked another as she turned to face him. “Is it because you are a distant cousin of Sir Gerald’s?”
He adjusted the banyan to sit square on her shoulders, then took the left and right panels and crossed them over her breasts. “Cousin? No. And not that distant.”
Unconsciously she pulled the banyan closer and folded her arms. “Then what do you mean, not that distant?”
He wondered how best to explain himself as he picked up his frock coat, which had also been left a crumpled heap on the carpet. He gave it a shake and brushed down the arms and the pocket flaps in the hopes of removing some of the creases. And when he shrugged it on, Mary was quick to help him find the second sleeve. She then did for him what he had done for her—adjust the set of the coat across his shoulders—as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do so. But her assistance with such a small domestic detail startled him. It was so unexpected, and yet offered him a presentiment of a future he had often dreamed of with her, that all he could do was mutter his thanks.
When she came back to stand before him and waited, silent and expectant, for his response, he finally found his voice again.
“I do have Cavendish blood. But the-the—connection is-is—complicated…”
“Complicated?”
“Yes. So complicated that it is a story for another day… And another day will see you have enough coal and firewood for both rooms.”
At his mention of coal her preoccupation with his name vanished, replaced with indignation.
“If one kiss was all that was required for me to have a good fire in both rooms, it’s a wonder you did not try to kiss me sooner!”
It was meant as a set-down. All it did was make Christopher chuckle deep in his throat.
“I wish I had. Eight years sooner—that day we were introduced downstairs in the hall. Kissing you was my first thought. The second you can guess…”
Mary frowned, not comprehending. “Second? Guess? What?”
He folded his arms and shook his head, grinning. “That’s one of the particulars about you I adore. No chicanery whatsoever.”
While he was speaking, Mary had finally understood his meaning about his second thought and blushed rosily. Not so much because he wanted to make love to her, but because, if she were truthful with herself, she now realized that the warm tingling throbbing somewhere deep inside her had first come to life upon meeting him. His second thought had been her first. She was so shocked by this admission that she disguised it with anger.
“I did not give you permission to-to—adore me, Mr. Bryce! I—I—”
“And yet you let me kiss you…?”
She pouted. “I did no such thing!”
He frowned and cocked his head. Inside he was still laughing. “No? You’re right. Thinking back on it, you didn’t, did you?”
“No! I did not!”
He tapped his mouth with a finger, his shoulders shaking with laughter. He found her embarrassed petulance adorable. “My dear Lady Mary, lower your voice or you may wake the ghost.”
She pulled a face but did as he asked. “I knew you were just humoring me! I’ll wager you don’t believe there is even a thief, least of all a ghost!”
“But—I assure you, I—”
He said no more, swallowing the rest of the sentence whole when in the pause between words he heard the faintest of noises, not unlike the sound of scratching on wood. Mary heard it too, and she glanced at the door and back at Christopher.
“Did you hear—”
“Yes. Yes, I did,” he interrupted in a whisper, all humor extinguished.
Together they crept up to the door as if it were a live thing ready to pounce on them, and put an ear to the panel. They had only a few moments to wait and then there was the same sound. Someone or something was scratching fingernails up and down the paneling. That Mary and Christopher both heard it was evident when they stared at one another, eyes wide and lips parted. Neither spoke, and both breathed shallow, as if not wanting to alert whatever it was on the other side to their presence. Though they also had the same thought—that their heated conversation, not to mention the candelabra hitting the floor, was more than enough of a disturbance to alert thief or specter alike.
And as they stared at one another, wondering if the noise would continue or perhaps something else might stir them into action, the unexpected happened. It was so utterly bone chillingly astonishing that they did not at first believe it to be real. And it wasn’t. It just couldn’t be.
A voice on the other side of the bolted door hissed through the paneling,
“Mary? Mary! Is that you?”
SEVEN
TIME SUSPENDED. Mary and Christopher drew in a start
led collective breath, stared at the door, then at each other, their respective expressions a mirror of the frozen shock the other was feeling. But neither was given the opportunity to speak when their shared moment was splintered by the voice on other side of the door, which whined,
“Mary, be a good girl and let me in. I’m chilled to m’marrow!”
Instead of doing as the voice ordered, Mary scuttled backwards, to get as far from the door as possible, until her foot caught in the fabric of her banyan and she stumbled back and came hard up against the bed. Face white, breathing quick and shallow, she slid to the floor. She was shaking from toes to ears and glared at Christopher.
“Now you must believe me! It is a ghost!”
“We’ll know soon enough,” he replied calmly, though he was uncharacteristically stunned that the specter or thief or whatever it was should address the Lady Mary with such familiarity.
He was torn between swiftly unlatching the bolt to discover once and for all if it was Sir Gerald’s ghost or a thief, and dashing over to gather Mary into his arms to soothe away her tremors. But practicality won out and he decided on the former. Surely, she’d have no qualms who drew back the bolt now.
“No! Wait!” she hissed, and came to life and back to Christopher’s side. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “If we open the door, we open it together. I don’t want Teddy thinking her mother a coward. Besides… I’ve just had a ridiculous thought… If ghosts can’t taste strawberry jam, they certainly can’t feel cold and be chilled to the marrow, can they?”
“Ha! Precisely!” Christopher grinned. “Just the sort of response Teddy would give! So, are you ready for me to open the door?”
Mary nodded, though she did swallow her apprehension down hard.
“Remember the strawberry jam,” Christopher whispered as he slid back the bolt, then turned the handle.
Instinctively, Mary leaned in to his shoulder and stepped with him away from the door as he opened it into the bedchamber. For a moment neither of them moved, then Christopher took a peek first, Mary followed, both silent and remaining behind the door, as if it were a shield offering protection from whatever force came from deep within the dressing room across the threshold. But there was no sudden burst of light. No rush of cold air. And there was no noise. It was deathly quiet.
Sir Gerald’s dressing room was in darkness. It was impossible to see beyond the first couple of feet. Off to their right was the faintest haze of candlelight. The window, if that was the means by which the thief had entered the room, was to the left, and as there was no breeze from that direction, or any other, Christopher assumed it to be closed tight and the curtains pulled against the night. So where was the owner of the voice? Could it belong to an ethereal being, as Mary suggested?
Both were mystified. Both were lulled into a false sense of relief that they had not been immediately confronted with a specter floating before them or a thief brandishing a weapon and barking demands.
“Wait. We need light,” Christopher whispered. “I’ll fetch a taper.”
Mary nodded, and turned a shoulder to watch him step over to the bedside table for the candelabra. She turned back to face the open doorway, and that’s when she saw it, looming large out of the blackness.
A figure draped all in white glided towards her. It made no sound on the floorboards and seemed to float. It held a single taper close to its chest, the harsh yellow light projecting upwards under its chin, illuminating a long, lean face from which unblinking eyes stared straight at her. Encircling its head was a halo of silver hair in wild disorder. It had an arm outstretched in its billowy white sleeve, and one crocked bony finger beckoned her.
Mary’s gaze left the wild eyes and travelled the length of the outstretched arm to fix on that beckoning finger. Two fingers of the left hand, middle and ring, were stumps. Such a macabre sight had her transfixed. But far from turning and fleeing as the figure continued to approach, she remained in the doorway, rigid with fright. A small part of her was composed enough to want to shout out to Christopher that she had been right all along—here was proof a ghost was haunting Sir Gerald’s dressing room! And curiosity kept her terror in check. The specter was most definitely not her dead husband. So who was it? And why was it inhabiting her husband’s rooms? And how did it know her name? That was the most terrifying question of all. And then it spoke, and confirmed her worst fears.
“I must be a fright by the look on your sweet face. To appear without warning in this manner is unforgiveable, but a necessity, ma chérie. You’ll understand once I explain. It was time to return.”
“Explain? Return?” Mary repeated, nonplussed.
“Identify yourself, sir!” Christopher demanded, standing by Mary in the doorframe and holding aloft the candelabra to better inspect the draped figure.
“Mary knows who I am.”
“Stay where you are!” Christopher ordered then glanced at Mary for answers.
But she stared at the figure and then up at Christopher and lifted her shoulders and shook her head as if to say she was clueless as to the specter’s identity.
“Mon Dieu,” muttered the figure. “I must indeed be a sorry sight if my dearest cousin can’t recognize me…”
“Again I say identify yourself!”
The specter had halted at Christopher’s command, but now it took a step closer, gaze fixed on Mary. To her surprise, and Christopher’s, it chose to address her in French.
“Chérie, if I had been able to walk through your front door in the light of day, I would gladly have done so. Believe me, I am the last person upon this earth who wants to bring you pain and suffering. I had hoped—it was my heartfelt wish—that time and circumstance had not altered me to such a great extent that you would’ve forgotten me? But now… now, seeing your sweet face for the first time in seven years, a face that is as beautiful and loved as that last day we parted in Paris all those years ago, I fear I may have left my return too late…”
In the silence that followed, Christopher looked to Mary for an explanation but she ignored him and approached the figure, unafraid, and peered hard into its face.
Was this a specter or a man? It had a strong square jaw and cheekbones that were a little too prominent, as if he had not eaten a decent meal in months. A scar bisected the left eyebrow, narrowly missing the eye, and far from being pale, the skin on his face and hands was tanned a warm caramel, as if he had spent many years in warmer climes.
But it was only when she fixed on the blue eyes, blue eyes filled with sadness and apprehension, and the mouth that quivered into a hesitant smile, that Mary knew with certainty the spectre’s identity. But recognition only deepened her confusion. Unwelcome tears welled up.
“Evelyn? Eve? Is it—is it truly you?”
“Ah, ma chérie… You do see me!” the specter cried out, opening wide its arms to embrace her.
“Stay back! Stay back I say!” Christopher demanded, brandishing the candelabra as if it were a sword.
Reason told Christopher here was flesh and blood dressed up in a nightshirt several sizes too large for its emaciated human frame. Yet, a tiny sliver of doubt had him wondering if indeed the supernatural was playing tricks on them when Mary covered her face with her hands, and then quickly dashed her eyes dry before exclaiming,
“How is it you are here? Why are you here? You’re dead. You died. M’sieur le Duc received word—Your parents—we—all of us—mourned you! We still do. Evelyn, you’ve been dead to us for five long years.”
“Yes, you did. And yes, I have been. I am sorry for it, but I have returned—returned from the dead—because I must make amends.”
“Returned from the dead…?”
That’s when Mary knew the figure before her had to be a ghost—the ghost of her long-lost cousin Evelyn Gaius Ffolkes, Viscount Vallentine and heir presumptive to the earldom of Stretham-Ely, whose tortured and bloated body was fished from the Riga River five years ago. There was a ring, a family heirloom, discovered
on the right hand. With this proof sent the Duke, there was a funeral and an empty coffin interned in the Roxton mausoleum.
And only three months ago she had visited the mausoleum, on her most recent stay with her Roxton cousins to celebrate her brother’s wedding. After the wedding breakfast, Mary and her cousin the Duchess had laid bouquets of white roses within the marble tomb, Mary placing a single white rose on Evelyn’s empty casket with a prayer for his poor tortured soul, hoping it was finally at peace.
But now she was meant to believe that this “man” standing before her was her cousin returned to make amends? For what? she wondered. And why now? And why here, before her? He couldn’t be flesh and blood, could he?! He had to be a ghost, didn’t he?! It was all too much. Overwhelmed and emotionally fraught, Mary took a shattering breath, her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor.
“I NEVER FAINT. I’m not a fainter,” Mary muttered sluggishly.
“No. No, you’re not,” Christopher agreed, holding a tumbler of water. He had scooped her up before she hit the floor in a dead faint, then carried her back through to her bedchamber to place her gently on the bed. “I’ve never seen you faint, ever.”
“No. No, you haven’t…” She shifted to sit up, and he helped her, plumping the pillows at her back to make her comfortable before handing her the water. She sipped and met Christopher’s gaze. “Is he—Evelyn’s not a ghost, is he?” she asked rhetorically.
Christopher set the tumbler aside and took hold of her hands. She was trembling, and not from cold. It was shock. All he knew about the identity of the stranger in the overlarge nightshirt was that he said he was Mary’s long lost cousin, a cousin Mary and her family thought was dead, and that his name appeared to be Evelyn.
Christopher was just as bewildered by this as Mary, but for her sake he kept his thoughts and opinions to himself. All he truly cared about was that she was not more troubled than she already was. He pressed her fingers, and when she looked into his eyes he could see she, like him, had a head full of questions, and was still trying to make sense of it all.
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