by Beth Trissel
She flipped the switch on the wall. By the pale illumination of the overhead light, she peered into the dark recess of the closet beneath the steps. Deep and it looked as though it used to lead somewhere back behind the wall that now barred her way.
“Not much inside, is there?”
She turned at Eric’s voice. His tall figure emerged through the living room door into the foyer.
“Not that I can see. But I have the niggling suspicion this is the path Claire chose when ferreting away her gift.”
He stepped nearer. “Maybe.”
She straightened. “It makes sense, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea where Claire went.” He stopped beside Bailey. “How could I?”
“You’re Edward’s great nephew and very like him.”
“I’ll take that as a complement as you seem so preoccupied with the fellow.”
She gazed up at him. The lines of his jaw were a little tight. “You can’t be jealous of a man dead for fifty years?”
“But not gone, apparently.”
“No. I have to—we have to—help him.”
“Even if Edward and I were psychically linked, if he didn’t know where Claire hid that gift, how should I?”
Bailey lifted one shoulder and let it drop.
“You’re not thinking of exploring that cellar, are you? Ella seems to think it’s a bust.”
“She may have missed something. But how can we get down there in all this snowy darkness?”
Eric smiled faintly. “A team of huskies might get us through. Or we could harness Captain to a sled.”
“That outside door is probably wedged shut by drifts.”
“Yes. But I suppose we could go down the steps.”
She swung her head at him. “How? I thought they were blocked off from the inside?”
He answered evenly, “This way is. There’s a small closet at the back of the stairs in the front hall that isn’t just a closet. It leads to the cellar too, minus a secret passage.”
Bailey threw her hands up. “I never noticed anyone go that way. Why didn’t Ella say?”
“Maybe she doesn’t want you down there taking it apart with a pick axe in your zeal. I’m not sure I do either.”
“I won’t demolish anything, for heaven’s sake. How many ways down to that cellar did your family need?”
“Several apparently. I suspect it used to make a circle. Go in one door and down the steps, back around, and emerge up through another door. Unless you entered from the outside. Everyone in the house would’ve known the drill.”
“Very well then, sir. Shall we take the less snowy route?”
He smiled. “You don’t feel like an arctic adventure?”
“Finding this gift before Christmas Eve is enough of one.” She stared inside the darkened closet. “What if it were tucked in that passage somewhere and Ella overlooked it?”
“Then we’re stuck. We are not tearing that wall out, Bailey.”
“But we have to find Claire’s present.”
“You’re hell bent on this, aren’t you?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“It’s still a cold, dark undertaking for the evening. The cellar isn’t heated at all, and the lighting’s poor at best.” He circled his arm around her, drawing her away from the closet and against him. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Reassurance washed through her and she relaxed against him, the arm Eric closed around her so strong and secure…his hard chest wonderfully muscled, his masculine scent clean with a hint of wood smoke and the brisk outdoors. Despite all her cares, she’d very much like it if he’d kiss her again the way he had before.
Lifting her hand to his face, she stroked the dark stubble at his chin. He pressed his lips to her fingertips and nuzzled her palm. Tingles flushed over her skin. She tilted her face to his, and he softly covered her lips as she’d hoped he would. He held her tightly against him and firmed his kiss, her cold mouth rapidly heating under his sensuous pressure.
Distracted as she was, it only vaguely occurred to her that the music in the other room had faded a while ago. Where had Tucker gotten to?
She startled at the low whistle sounding behind them. Eric revolved with her toward the doorway.
Tucker surveyed them quizzically, his guitar slung over one shoulder. “What’s going down in here?”
If she told Tucker her purpose in coming to the foyer and Eric’s part in all of this, he’d probably think they were both tripping.
Eric whispered in her ear, “The cellar will keep ‘til tomorrow.” Then to Tucker, “We’re just chilling, man.”
Bailey felt warm to her toes with Eric.
Chapter Seven
“Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu…”
Strains of the beloved song “Till We Meet Again” threaded through Bailey’s dreams. Popular during the Great War, the song spoke of a soldier parting from his sweetheart with the promise they’d meet again.
“When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you…”
Back, back her thoughts drifted on the wings of music. Images of Edward as he’d been before the war floated through her mind…a certain glance, that melting smile…Edward elegantly attired in a suit swirling her in a waltz, then later, dressed in his uniform wearing a somber expression.
Dearest Edward—
Wait, surely she meant Eric; the two men were fusing together in her muzzy mind. Difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. And it came to her with the force of a strong wind that she had to see Edward again. There was something she must tell him, though she wasn’t sure what. An inherent sense guided her now, one that reached beyond everything she knew. Or thought she did.
Shivering she rose from her bed in Claire’s long nightgown, and slid cold toes into slippers and crept down the chilly hall. The pale halo from the lamp on the stand illuminated her passage. As before, she wasn’t certain if she were sleepwalking or fully conscious, only that her feet led her back to his room. Again she stood before that dark, scored door. Was it possible, could he, would he, be on the other side? If this were a dream, had she the power to determine its course?
Be there. Be there.
Trembling with cold, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird in flight, she rapped lightly on the door. Voice soft so as not to disturb Aunt Meg, she said, “It’s me.”
“Come in.” His reply was faint, but audible.
Thank God. For a moment she leaned against the wooden barrier for support, her chest thudding.
Hardly able to believe he’d answered, she turned the knob with shaking fingers. Once more, the fire glowed in the hearth and the air was much warmer than out in the icy hallway. Edward sat in the chair he’d occupied the previous night wearing his plush robe. Ella’s throw covered his legs, an added barrier against the chill, and on his lap was a leather-bound book.
Bailey closed the door behind her and stood quivering on the other side—his side. The room was as she remembered from her last visit, with one exception. On the wooden stand beside his chair was a beautiful, oak gramophone, a Victrola, she believed these old phonographs were called only this one was new. An early Christmas gift, maybe. And on its turntable a record played the song from her dreams…Every tear will be a memory, So wait and pray each night for me…
Edward gazed at her, feverish eyes rapt on her face. In a hoarse voice he finished with the song, “Til we meet again.”
Her heart caught and chills ran down her spine. He was gravely ill; she saw it in his face, so painfully like Eric’s. Not in his worsening illness, but in the resemblance he bore him. Even Edward’s singing was similar to Eric’s, despite the huskiness. It was as though Eric was slumped in that chair dying right in front of her. If she didn’t already know how much she loved him, she did now.
Edward’s eyes glistened with the emotion she se
nsed passing between them, and he smiled. “You came back.”
“I didn’t know if I could—if you’d be here.”
“Only just.” His voice was gruff from illness.
Uncertain how long she had before he faded away, she rushed at him. It was all she could do not to fling her arms around his neck and crush what little breath remained in his chest. She threw herself into the chair beside him instead.
A rasping chuckle escaped him. “Good to see someone run when I can scarcely walk.”
“Oh, Edward—” Lost for words, she heaved a sigh.
“Such a weighty exhalation.” He lifted pale fingers to smooth her hair. “How are you keeping?”
More, always more, seemed implied in his every gesture, each utterance. She leaned her head against his hand. “Well,” she managed, squeezing her eyes against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. “And you?”
His cool fingers encircled her cheek. “Reading poetry, some of Lord Byron’s work. Terribly sentimental of me, I suppose.”
“And romantic.” Discussing poetry seemed beyond her now, but if it was what he wished. “Which is your favorite?”
“Can there be any other?” In a low whisper, he recited, “She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies…and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes—”
With that, a violent spasm seized him. His hand dropped from her face, and he coughed into his handkerchief, staining it with blood. Gasping, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Wild ideas tumbled through her mind. Hopeless, impossible, but she had to try. “Edward, maybe I can save you. There’s treatment for lung infections. I could bring you some medicine.” She glanced at the swirling whiteness beyond the window. “I’m not sure how to get to town in the snow, but I’ll find a way.”
He smiled wanly. “I’ve been dosed with all the medicine there is.”
“There’s more now.”
“Since the doctor last came?”
She reached out and grasped his shoulder. “Yes. Antibiotics.”
“A new one to me. But it’s too late, Bailey.”
“No!” If she persuaded Eric to get her to a hospital and they made it through the snow, she’d insist she needed the prescription for a friend trapped in the blizzard. That might work, but what was the likelihood Edward would be here when she returned?
Tears flooded her vision, blurring his dear face. “I’d do anything to help you. Please, Edward, let me try.”
His eyes fluttered open. Lifting his hand, he covered hers at his shoulder, his touch cool, but not deadly cold. “Don’t you realize? You already have.”
She clutched his fingers, so like Eric’s. “But I haven’t found Claire’s gift yet. I’ve not given up—I’ll search again tomorrow. Give me that long?”
“Where have you looked?”
“Everywhere except the cellar.”
His fevered gaze was pensive. “Perhaps…”
She sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Don’t die before I find it. Please.”
A faint smile touched his pale lips. “I have little control over that.”
“Try. Say you will.”
He gave a weak nod. Raising his fingers to her face, he traced the path of a tear sliding down her cheek. “You’re the most curious girl…and strangely wonderful.”
Eyes lost in his, she swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Edward, whatever Claire’s gift is, she wanted you to know how dearly she loves you. That she never wanted to leave you, and she’s waiting for you.”
“You seem so certain.”
Bailey could hardly speak. “I am.”
He looked hard at her. “Do I dream? Are you real, or an angel?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
His hand fell away and he coughed into the handkerchief. “I’m no angel. Ask the German soldiers I fought, if the dead can speak.” He waved at the room. “Perhaps this is my punishment.” His gaze returned to her. “And you’re my salvation.”
She pressed a kiss to his hand. “Then be at peace.”
For a long moment only the sound of his labored breathing carried above the crackle of the fire in the hearth. “Are you certain we haven’t met before last night?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels as though I’ve been sent back for you.”
He arched a dark eyebrow at her. “From where, heaven?”
She blotted her damp cheeks on her sleeve. “There’s nothing for it other than to tell you. I’m not Charles Randolph’s cousin, I’m his granddaughter.”
So intent were Edward’s eyes, then his mouth curved in a soft smile. “Well, Bailey Clarice Randolph, that makes one of us a ghost.”
“Or a time traveler.”
He gestured at the photograph of Claire on the wall dressed in a nurse’s uniform, posing with a small group of other young women who’d served in the Red Cross during the war. How hopeful she appeared and pleased with the work she’d done.
He spoke quietly. “Take a good look at her and tell me if she’s familiar?”
“Of course I know her. I’ve seen her.”
“Pay special attention to her eyes.”
The photograph was black and white, but something in Claire’s expression struck Bailey. Goosebumps rippled down her spine and she swiveled her head from the photograph back to him. “What are you saying?”
“You said it yourself. You were sent back for me.”
Her jaw dropped. “You think I’m Claire? I’m the ghost?”
“I’m not dead yet, dearest.”
“Neither am I. It’s 1968—”
He touched his fingers to her lips. Eyes drifting shut, he whispered, “Till we meet again.”
Chapter Eight
“Snow’s let up!” Ella’s boom from the top of the cellar steps was accompanied by the delicious fragrance of Sally Lunn wafting from the kitchen. “Miss Meg’s got Mister Brown plowing the drive with his tractor and his boy’s clearing the road up to where the snow plough’s working on the highway. It’s still rough out, but ought to open things up so the closer neighbors can git to the party.”
“Good!” Eric straightened from the assorted boxes, tins, and pickle crocks stacked around him and Bailey in one corner of the cellar. His leg was stiff and he’d gladly call it quits but knew she was set on going over every inch of the cellar.
“You two ‘bout finished down there?”
“Not quite.”
“We haven’t found what we came for yet.” Smudged with grime from their labors, Bailey sank onto an upturned wooden bucket that acted as a stool.
“We’ve unearthed a ton of other stuff.” The attic wasn’t the only catchall in the house and a motley jumble found its way down here over the years, button top ladies’ boots and ice skates Eric swore were turn of the century, a catcher’s mitt, checkers, chutes and ladders…an old schoolhouse bell…no wonder Ella hadn’t wanted Bailey adding to the disarray down here.
He lowered himself onto a stack of unused apple crates “Might open an antique shop with all of this, Ella.”
“Ain’t none of that stuff worth much!”
“You might be surprised.”
His eye wandered to the shelves lining the gray, stone walls stocked with colorful jars canned from last summer’s bounty and Ella’s blackberry cordial, a modest collection of wine bottles. Wooden bins were heaped with potatoes. The crates stacked most everywhere else scented the musty cellar with the ripeness of fruit brandy.
“We could wait out the war down here and not go hungry.”
“Some folk did,” Ella shot back. “Only not this war. Confederate soldiers hid out down there. Give a holler if you find anything.”
“Their graves?”
She snorted. “Ain’t none of them buried there I know of. Might be a few Yankees. I’m sending Tucker down to help out. He’s cleared the steps and walk, making himself useful.”
“Great! Give him a mallet!”
“Don’t you go beating at them walls!” She turned back to her kitchen.
Eric noticed Bailey hadn’t entered into this exchange; she’d been unusually quiet ever since he discovered her asleep in Edward’s room in a chair covered with the throw. She looked paler than normal, too, and wouldn’t say if she’d had another of her encounters, or hallucinations. Surely the effects of whatever drug she’d taken would soon wear off.
He touched her cold cheek. “Where else do you want to look?”
She lifted uncertain eyes.
“You’re the psychic one,” he said gently.
“Is that what I am?”
He didn’t like her troubled expression. “Listen, I don’t know what happened to you last night, but if you’re going to make a habit of trekking to that room, we should heat it.”
“After tonight it will be pointless for me to go.”
“Because a man dead for fifty years won’t be there anymore?”
She sighed. “I know it doesn’t make any sense.”
He shook his head at her wonderingly. “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”
She shivered despite the layers of shirts, sweaters, and jeans she wore—they both wore. She even had a red scarf wrapped around her neck and a green and red Tam ‘o Shanter on her head—adorably Scots. A raw cold permeated the cellar but he was warm enough. “If you’re chilled down here, how do you stand that icy bedroom?”
“It’s not cold when I’m there.”
“Or you slept so soundly you didn’t notice. I should think you’d have to be nearly unconscious for that though.”
“Or crazy. You won’t have me committed, will you?”
He blew out his breath. “I admit a part of me fears for your mental state.”
“And the other part?”
He circled his arms around her. “Doesn’t think you’re crazy.”
She nestled close, and he buried his face in her soft hair, then whispered in her ear, “You’re the most curious girl, and strangely wonderful.”
She gasped and a tremor shook her.