by Beth Trissel
“Do you ever feel there’s something about this house, a strong pull to the past?” She asked in a whispery voice.
Her query touched a place deep inside Eric that he preferred to keep as tightly closed as this room had been before her coming. “Sometimes. But that’s inevitable, given the age of this place.”
“It’s more than that. There’s sadness, its strongest in here.”
He answered slowly. “Some tragedies have a way of flowing out, like ripples on a pond, and affecting future generations. We’re bound to think of Edward and Claire.” He refrained from adding, but it’s not worth going around the bend over, and asked, “But why do you think the room’s haunted?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you.”
He kept his tone light. “More than I already do?”
She lifted her troubled gaze to his and replied like one with scant hope of being believed. “The hearth was warm and burning in here last night.”
“That must have been a very vivid dream.”
“But I could taste, smell, and feel things like they were real.”
“Some dreams seem so.”
“Not like this. That fire was lit.”
He eyed the white, painted insert made of wood and neatly fitted into the hearth to close off the draft. “We could pull that seal out fairly easily and make a fire, but you can see for yourself no one has.”
“Unless they did so and reinserted the seal.”
“Seems highly unlikely.”
“I know. I thought maybe a bum snuck in here at first.”
He considered her closely. “At first?”
“Until I discovered your Uncle Edward. We sat in those chairs and spoke together.”
Eric stared at her. She didn’t seem like a raving lunatic. Her eyes were anxious but conveyed the awareness of a sound mind firmly grounded in reality. Not the wild gaze of one wandering in delusion. But then, he wasn’t certain what an insane woman looked like, more deranged he assumed.
She sighed. “I know it doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
A mulish look came into her eyes. “I’m just telling you what happened.”
“You spoke with a dead man? The fire in the closed hearth seems perfectly plausible by comparison.”
Her lips puckered and her face drew together in a plea. “Both are true. I swear.”
“Swearing doesn’t make it so. Although, I see you believe it to be. I appreciate your empathy for the past, but the logical side of me has to ask if it’s possible you tried something stronger than pot while you were in school?”
Her face fell. “Aunt Meg told you about that?”
“We had a quiet chat last evening.”
“About me?” Bailey had a wounded pixie look.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I hoped maybe we could get to know each other first.”
“I’m not judging you, Bailey.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are.”
“Just trying to get to the bottom of all this. Maybe you’re clairvoyant and had a vision, or maybe drugs are involved. You admit to smoking pot, don’t you?”
“Once.”
“Well then, why is it so unlikely that you might have tried a more powerful substance?”
She lifted her chin. “Because I didn’t take anything.”
“That you will admit to or remember?”
She frowned at him. “Either one.”
“Then we must conclude you don’t remember.”
“Eric! I’m not completely gaga.”
She started to whirl away, but he leaned hard on his cane and gripped her with his other arm. He might be handicapped in one regard but he still had the use of the rest of his body. “Hold on a minute. I care about you.” More than he wanted to admit and fast consuming him.
She didn’t appear persuaded, but stopped trying to wrench free. “You’re giving me grief.”
“Not intentionally. Stop me if I say anything that’s not true. Deal?”
She gave a reluctant nod.
“You were expelled from school. Correct?”
She pursed her lips in evident annoyance. “Yes, counselor.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “And they found a boy in your dorm room.”
She made a face. “Peter somebody.”
Eric stared at her. “You don’t even know his name?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of tramp. We didn’t do anything.”
“Apparently your parents are afraid you did.”
“My father and stepmother, you mean.”
“I have one of those myself, remember, and be grateful you still have a father.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you. I already got one from the dean of students.”
The flailing commenced again and he firmed up his hold on her. “Hear me out. Bolting won’t solve anything. And unless you intend to knock this stick out from under me, I’m determined to talk this through. Are you absolutely certain there’s no chance you’re pregnant?”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you my big brother now?”
“No thank you.”
“That’s exactly the sort of question Brian would’ve asked.” Her voice caught on his name.
Eric felt like a heel pressing her for details, but had to know. “Just answer me.”
“You have to do stuff to get pregnant, Eric. I’m not with child unless I got that way from Immaculate Conception.”
“Or were too stoned to remember.”
Her eyes flashed to his. “I am not a pothead.” Her quivering lips clamped shut.
Clearly, she wasn’t offering further information, but he still had unanswered questions, and gently said, “You were always unusual, Bailey, but not a rebel. What happened to you while I was away?”
She blinked furiously at the tears welling in her indignant gaze. “Death, Eric. You must have seen plenty of it.”
More than enough for two lifetimes, but he’d determined never to discuss it. “I didn’t turn to drugs.”
She muttered, “You were a lot more fun at midnight.”
He jerked his head at her. “What?”
She bit her lip. “I mean Edward was. And he was sick and dying at the time.”
“Dead, Bailey. Edward Burke has been dead for fifty years.”
“And alive in this room last night.”
“Taking LSD even once can cause lingering hallucinations,” Eric reasoned. “Maybe this Peter no name slipped something into your soda.”
Bailey started to argue then stopped. Her eyes glistened and a tear slid down her cheek. “Maybe he did. Maybe I’m knocked up and tripping, and don’t know it.”
Eric gaped at her.
She shrugged miserably. “No one says what they’re really thinking in the family.”
“Clearly not one of your failings.”
Bailey’s hazel eyes were liquid pools of reproach. “You’re quick to remind me of those. I’ve already got Ella on my back.”
“Be glad she didn’t overhear that last remark. She’d tell you exactly what she thought.”
“You seem determined to think the worst of me.”
“No. I’m just trying to understand.”
“You’re too square for that. You probably think hippies are of the devil.”
“Ignorant and antisocial. Not inherently evil.”
“Same thing. You despise them, and they’re the only ones who ever gave me a chance. Said I was freaky.”
“Is that some kind of compliment?”
“Yeah. Like far out and cool.”
“Speak as though you’ve got a brain, Bailey.”
“You sound as though you’re from another century.”
“I thought that’s what you liked,” he tossed back.
“In a gentlemanly way.”
The accusation ripped through him. Dropping his hand from her arm, he raised it at the ceiling. “Now I’m not a gentlem
an? I suppose Peter no name was?”
She squirmed. “I didn’t say that.”
“Or your adored hippies, perfect gentlemen, are they?”
She seemed so thoroughly miserable he relented. “I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel. I fear I’m accustomed to giving orders and must remember you’re not one of my men.”
“Is that so difficult?” She sniffed.
He gave her a wry smile. “Not even if I were comatose. Forgive me, please?”
She nodded, and didn’t pull back as he slid his fingers over her cold, damp cheek. “You’re chilled through and will make yourself ill next thing. You don’t want to be sick for Christmas, do you?”
“She better not!” The steps creaked and Ella huffed into the room carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits with sausage gravy. She clucked with disapproval. “Picked at your supper last evening. Didn’t eat no breakfast this morning. And now yer up here where you’ve no business being.” She thrust the milky brew, plate and a fork at Bailey. “Sit there and git this down you.”
Eric watched Bailey select the chair to the right of the hearth and huddle on it wrapped in the throw. He limped over and sat beside her. As far as he knew, he’d never spent any time in this armchair, but it felt unaccountably familiar. He propped his leg on the footstool. “Might as well build a fire in here, if we’re staying.”
“No one’s staying, Mister Eric, unless you want to.”
He shook his head. “Just until Bailey’s ready to leave.”
Ella flicked a tea towel over the chest of drawers. “Girl, what are you going on about?”
She took a long sip and swallowed. “There’s something I need to do.”
“In here?”
“Not yet. I’ve got to search the attic first.”
Ella swung her bulk around at her. “What on Earth you want to go and do that fer?”
“To see if I can find Claire’s gift for Edward.”
Ella looked hard at Bailey. “How you know ‘bout that? I never told no one.”
“Edward told me in a dream, or whatever I saw last night.”
Regret softened the disapproval in Ella’s creased face. Eric was dumbfounded when she said, “I always felt real bad I couldn’t find that present. Searched high and low. Maybe you kin discover a hidey hole somewhere.”
Bailey considered. “Do you have any idea what the gift was?”
The older woman shook her gray head and pointed to the desk and chair. “Miss Claire set right there writing Mister Edward a real pretty Christmas card while he was off in the war, but she wouldn’t tell me what she’d got him. Said it was a surprise and hid it herself along with the card. Reckon she never knew she’d take that secret to her grave. To his dying regret.”
Eric had an odd sensation in his gut.
Bailey took another swallow. “Ella, why do you keep this room shut up? And don’t say it’s because no one needs it.”
Ella’s broad chest heaved under her bulky gray sweater. “Nobody in the family much minded me keeping it this way. It never seemed right having the use of the room when Mister Edward ain’t quite done with it.”
Eric eyed her sharply. “What do you mean? You’re keeping it as a shrine?”
“More’n that. Every year, ‘bout this time, I kin tell he’s here brooding over Miss Claire. Never got to say goodbye, you see. Tore him up something fierce.”
Eric sat up straighter. “This room is haunted?”
“Appears so.” Ella swept her gaze over the furnishings. “After Christmas, I don’t feel him no more ‘til the next year. He comes back about the time they sent him home from the war.”
Eric could hardly believe his ears. “A seasonal ghost?”
Ella shrugged. “I don’t never say nothing about it. Ghost talk makes folks skittish. Mind you keep this to yerselves.”
Bailey nodded. And Eric wasn’t about to go around blathering about ghosts. “When did Uncle Edward die, exactly?”
“Christmas Eve, just before the bells rung.”
Bailey paled. “Tomorrow evening.”
Ella was somber. “We had a party that night, like usual. I brought him a plate, but he didn’t touch nothing. When I went back to see about him he’d passed, right in that chair where Mister Eric sets. He favored that chair.”
Her disclosure startled Eric. “Have you ever seen him?”
“Caught a glimpse sometimes.” Ella glanced at the dresser. “Miss Bailey, you been at the whiskey?” She gestured at two tumblers beside a decanter partly filled with amber fluid. Both glasses had the recent remnants of whiskey in the bottom.
Bailey stared wide-eyed. “Not by myself. Edward asked me for a drink.”
“In yer dream?” Ella frowned. “Don’t be getting into Mister Edward’s whiskey. He said it was a special brew.”
Which left Eric to wonder how much of a role alcohol had played in Bailey’s nighttime vision, and whether he was sitting with a ghost. He felt like he had the chair all to himself…
Ella broke into his strange conjecture. “I forgot to tell you, Miss Meg says we’re having the party this year after all in honor of your homecoming. She’s busy inviting folks. Yer cousin Tucker Burke’s coming.” Ella rolled her eyes heavenward. “That boy looked like he been lost in the mountains the last time he come by. All that hair. Heard he growed a beard now.”
Damn. His hippie cousin was the last person Eric wanted to see. He feared Bailey might easily be led astray in her vulnerable state. After their recent and heated exchange, he realized she was extraordinarily unique, but not mentally unbalanced. She’d suffered acutely from the loss of her brother and been under an enormous strain at home. Everything in him wanted to shield her and help her heal.
Rather than expressing his reservation about his cousin, he asked, “What’s Tucker doing these days?”
“Playing the guitar with those grubby friends of his.”
“Is he in some kind of band?”
Ella was grim. “The worst sort. Plays at them hole-in-the-wall eateries no respectable folk would stick a toe in. That rock n’ roll is the devil’s music.”
Eric wouldn’t say that, but Tucker’s coming cast a shadow across his mind. “He won’t stay long. His band will probably have a gig for New Year’s. We’ll weather his visit.”
“Like a n’easter,” Ella said darkly. “Yer aunt and uncle is beside themselves over that boy. Wanted him to be a doctor.”
Eric gave a short laugh. “After he dropped out of college to bum around the country in that beat up van?”
“Painted like a rainbow. Something ain’t right ‘bout that boy.”
Bailey eyed Eric curiously. “What’s Tucker like?”
Emma snorted, and said, “Hairy.”
And damnably charming when he wants to be. Looking at Bailey, Eric suspected Tucker might very well feel inclined to put himself out.
Chapter Five
Bundled against the chilly attic in her red cashmere pullover, green and blue tartan skirt made of Scottish wool, knee socks and leather shoes, Bailey bent near the aged trunk. Its dusky interior smelled of cedar and mothballs. The single light bulb overhead revealed the soft pile of silk, satin, and lace. Only the finer ladies clothes seemed to have been saved, almost as if they’d been lovingly tucked away for her to discover.
She fingered a filmy negligee that must’ve been part of Claire’s bridal trousseau, possibly for her wedding night. The nearly transparent fabric, like gossamer wings, seemed almost too exquisite to wear. Claire hadn’t always donned the flannel nightgown Ella lent Bailey. She envisioned the very alive young woman she’d seen in the photograph and a healthy Edward rapturously entwined together, and a pang went through her to think of their tragic parting. Intrigued by their love story and determined to complete her quest, she set the negligee aside and peered further into the trunk.
A beautiful dark green, almost black, dress trimmed in narrow, orange-red piping caught her eye. She lifted the mid-weight gown, likely int
ended for winter wear. The age appeared to be late Edwardian from what she could remember of her fashion history class. Assuming this garment also belonged to Claire, it must date back to the early nineteen hundreds, perhaps as late as nineteen sixteen. Bailey straightened and held the dress up to the light to better admire the sheen of color.
How lovely.
The hem fell to mid-calf and was set off with a band of darker cloth. The fitted sleeves, made in two parts, stopped above the elbow and continued with a sheerer fabric to meet narrow, gathered cuffs ringed with the same colorful piping. The layered look of the top reminded her of an elegant jacket worn over a dress.
The lace-covered collar outlined the high V-neck bodice set above the wide waistband, the center of which formed an attractive curve in the front at the midriff. Beneath the band, an undulating ribbon of dark green braid intertwined with tiny braid rosettes, outlined the waist. The centers of the roses were bright with the rich piping.
On the left side of the skirt, a fold of cloth flowed from the waist to the hem in a gently gathered ripple. The back of the dress was stunning—a square insert of sheer green fabric layered over orange-red piping, outlined with sequins and yet more braid rosettes beneath. This charming creation appealed to Bailey’s sense of the artistic.
She carefully draped the dress over a stool and knelt back beside the trunk. Opening a wide box, she took out an enormous hat covered with black ostrich plumes that met in the front above a broad brim worked in a design of jet beads. The spectacular headwear couldn’t be worn on a windy day without a hand firmly clasped over the brim or lengths of gauze securing it under the chin or the hat would sail off like a parasol. She pictured Claire struggling to retain her hat and Edward smiling at her.
Like a child playing dress up, Bailey tried the hat on over her long ponytail and posed before the full-length mirror propped against the slats that formed one attic wall. Her reflection showed a young woman, much like Claire, wearing the enormous hat of an Edwardian lady, her face shadowed by the brim. What a sense of style, of self, Claire must have possessed to wear such a hat. It made Bailey want to stand up straighter and meet life with more confidence.