“Would you like—?” the servant stepped forward with the letter, but Reginald’s mother turned her head away, hauling a few nervous breaths into her chest.
“Read it,” she commanded. “Read it to me.”
“Yes ma’am,” the servant said softly, retrieving a letter opener from the mail tray. Reginald could hear the paper being cut in the stark silence of the house, and that sound would stay with him for the rest of his life. It was not quite a cut, not quite a tear, it was something that sat in the center with dreadful precision, and it chilled the young boy to his core.
“To the esteemed Duchess of Cloudfield,” the servant began, looking with a strange and unfamiliar expression at the words he was set to read. He took a breath, and continued. “We write to you so urgently to inform you of the action at Santa Cruz de Tenerife, which occurred under the command of Admiral Horatio Nelson this twenty-fifth of this July, in the year of our Lord seventeen ninety-seven.”
“A night assault was made on the beach, led by Admiral Nelson and his top officers, your esteemed husband, the Duke of Cloudfield among them. It was in this heroic action that Admiral Nelson was wounded by grapeshot, and we are told your husband took up the command of the landing parties. For this he should and will be commended honors that befit his bravery, in that regard you have my word.”
Then the servant stopped, taking another lingering pause but Reginald’s mother said quietly, “Continue.” The servant nodded, and looked back to the page.
“Your husband’s landing craft was then struck by artillery fire from the fortress walls, and all men aboard perished as a result, the great and noble Duke of Cloudfield among them—”
“No!” she wailed out, crumpling to her knees as all the composure fled from her face. “No, no, no! Woe upon the world, no!” and she began to sob uncontrollably, taking her head into her hands.
Reginald felt a strangeness come over him. It was like a sudden flood that hollowed everything within him away, leaving him unable to move, think, or speak. He could only watch his mother cry from afar and struggle to understand what exactly was occurring, for he was three years old, and while he understood what death was as a concept, it had never affected him personally, and he still did not grasp the finality of it, as children struggle to do.
So he stood there as the servant crouched down beside his mother, tentatively reaching out his hand. “May I get you something?” he asked gently.
“Leave!” she snapped back. “Leave and take that cursed letter with you!”
The servant recoiled, but maintained his professional demeanor, and said “I shall bring you a brandy, to settle your nerves if it pleases, ma’am.”
“Just leave,” she sobbed, her head lolling back into her hands, her body wrenching with great sobs. “Go! Get it away from me!” and she thrust her hands roughly toward the letter, shoving it away crudely. The servant tucked the letter into his waistcoat, and stood slowly.
“I shall see about that brandy, Your Grace,” he said. He straightened his uniform, and turned toward the nearby parlor. Reginald saw that after he turned away, the servant wiped a single tear from his eye, then he disappeared through the doorway.
Reginald was about to move toward his mother, for at this point he could see that something was terribly wrong, but just as he was about to move, she thrust herself to her feet, her body shaking with each heaving breath. She turned around and began to claw her way up the stairs, her hands wrapping around the beautiful and lengthy banister that wound up the symmetrical staircase to the second floor, like the talons of a hawk on the hunt.
She was gone from his sight then, and Reginald could no longer hear her sobbing. He tentatively stepped out from his hiding place behind the armor, now finding the strength to move his legs. The house was silent, eerily so, save for a light clinking of crystal from the other room where the servant was presumably pouring a brandy.
Reginald was about to step from the hallway that ran beneath the stairs out into the foyer properly, when something happened. It happened suddenly, and without warning, and it would affect little Reginald for the rest of his life.
First it appeared as a shadow, moving silently through the air in a plummeting motion, so quickly that Reginald could not make it all out, but then it stopped short some two feet from the ground, and the cessation in movement was accompanied by a horrendous cracking sound as the banister kicked and bucked under the weight, but nevertheless held true to its assigned purpose.
His mother was swinging there before him, and wood chips flaked down around her in a strange dusting, her head at an awful tilt, hung with a thick woven cord from the heavy drapes, and Reginald screamed.
He could not be sure of what happened after that. The next thing he knew he was in the servant’s arms, being carried fast away from the hanging silhouette of his mother as she became a smaller and smaller shape down the hall. The suits of armor seemed to stare at him as he was carried past at a running speed, and the colors of the wallpaper blended together into a strange sort of tunnel.
He could hear the resounding footfalls of the servant, and the sound of his clomping blocked out all other sounds in that vortex of a space, and then finally his mother disappeared from view entirely.
Reginald found himself sitting in the kitchen, staring at his feet, not knowing what was happening at all. There was commotion all around and the house staff were crying on each other’s shoulders. Reginald felt as if he were still in the tunnel, without any place to go or be, or anything to say. He kicked his feet together over and over again, counting the scuff marks on his shoes each time he added another. When did I put on shoes?
“Hello, Reginald,” a familiar voice cut through the swirling chaos, and Reginald looked up to see his uncle’s kind face looking down at him. His uncle sank to his knee, and looked into Reginald’s eyes, reaching a hand out to hold up his chin. “How are you?”
Reginald blinked at his uncle. Speech was not something he possessed the capacity for at the moment, and so he looked solemnly at his uncle with both the deepest sorrow, and greatest confusion in his eyes. Reginald returned his uncles question with a single shrug, then went back to kicking his feet together.
“Come now,” his uncle put his hand on one of Reginald’s feet, stopping the distraction. “You have to come away with me.”
Reginald looked back up at his uncle, and sheepishly asked, “Where are we going?”
“We are going to my home,” his uncle replied. “You are going to live there henceforth.”
“Will Mother and Father be there?” Reginald asked, hunching his shoulders forward. He saw his uncle take a deep breath, bow his head, then look back up at him while he nervously scratched at his fine woolen top hat.
“No, Reginald,” he said, and his eyes began to water. “No, they won’t.”
“I want to see them,” Reginald protested, feeling himself begin to cry.
“I know, lad,” his uncle took him into an embrace, and lifted him off of the kitchen bench. “I know.”
So his uncle carried him out of the back of the house, and Reginald sobbed into his overcoat. The manor he knew as his home faded from view, but Reginald knew that one day, he would return.
Chapter One
The winter, though beautiful in every right, was a dull affair in the English countryside, or so the young and beautiful Amelia Balfour thought. It was early January, and the snows blanketed the fields all around her family’s elegant manor home. Amelia sat not-so-gracefully on the window seat, a woolen blanket wrapped up around her, and an obscure book resting lazily on her stomach as she gazed out at the endless fields of soft, frozen white.
Over the hill she could see smoke rising from the cottages as the peasants went about their daily winter existence. It would be hard to live out there, she thought, and was thankful for the well-built roof and crackling fireplace she sat near.
Amelia blinked her deep brown eyes and ruffled her curly hair of the same color as she stretched out on the c
omfortable bench, feeling the heat of the flames warm her backside. Although she had nothing to do that particular day, she found little issue with the degree of comfort she presently enjoyed.
“Amelia, I’ve found it,” her sister came through the door to the reading room with a gusto only sixteen-year-olds possess, clutching a periodical in her excited palms.
“Found what, Bridget?” Amelia sat up a bit, readjusting her position to face her excited younger sister.
“The Cheap Magazine,” Bridget exclaimed excitedly. “The issue we’ve been looking for.”
“Wherever did you find that?” Amelia was extremely interested now, letting the blanket fall away as she made room for her sister on the window seat. “Come, sit,” she patted the cushion beside her.
“You remember Stapleton, the errand boy?”
“Of course,” Amelia said, grinning. “You won’t ever stop speaking of him.”
“Hush now,” Bridget protested. “It is not at all like that.”
“Then why are you blushing?” Amelia teased.
“I am not,” Bridget shot back, her hands flying to her cheeks, which were indeed turning a bright red.
“Whatever you say, dear sister,” Amelia rolled her eyes playfully. “Never mind that, how did you obtain this? You know Mother and Father don’t approve of what is written in there.”
“Well, I stumbled across Stapleton when he was going for eggs—”
“And what were you doing by the hens, if not looking for him?” Amelia could not resist but to take one last jab.
“You said you would stop,” Bridget threw up her arms. “What can I do?”
“Come, come,” Amelia put her arms around her sister. “So you ran into him by the hens.”
“I did,” Bridget huffed. “And he told me that he was going into town with his father for building materials and oats.”
“As he is wont to do,” Amelia spurred her sister on. “He is, after all, the errand boy.” Although that prod seemed to go over Bridget’s head.
“Yes, well, I asked if he could look into the book shop there, for anything else regarding ghosts, and today he has returned with this magazine,” and she once again flourished the periodical. “At first he apologized, for it is several years out of date, which was why he was able to get such a fair price, and the clerk there told him of a new ghost story we have yet to read within these pages.”
“And how did you express your gratitude? A kiss? A hug? A smile?”
“I will not share it with you if you continue to mock me,” Bridget fussed. “He is a fine-looking man.”
“He is a boy, an errand boy at that,” Amelia sighed. “I only tease you so because you know what Mother and Father would say lest they ever discover your friendship.”
“Oh, I know they would be cross,” Bridget said with a mocking face. “But that is why they do not know.”
“Indeed,” Amelia grinned wide. “Now come off it, let’s see this story, shall we?”
“Oh, it is wonderful.” Bridget glowed while she flipped through the pages.
“You have already read it,” Amelia accused in a high tone.
“Well, I was so excited,” Bridget fussed.
“Well then, you shall read it to me,” Amelia ruled, and lay back against the wall with her sister in her arms.
“Must I?”
“You must.”
“Very well.” Bridget found the appropriate page and cleared her throat, in a way Amelia thought that an orator might before beginning an appeal to the public. “It is titled A Ghost!”
“So very creative,” Amelia said with a grin. “Go on then, let us hear it.”
“Here we are then,” and so Bridget began to read. “Some years ago, early on New Year’s Day morning—when there had been a great fall of snow—three young persons in a country village set out to be first-fit— What does that mean?” Bridget paused.
“It means they were off somewhere to become sodded,” Amelia replied with a chuckle. “Something you should know nothing about. Now go on.” And so she did.
“—to some of their friends a few miles distant. They walked cheerfully along the road, which is lined on each side with fences, till they came up to the parish churchyard, which they had to pass, when suddenly their mirth was converted into terror at the appearance of a GHOST,” and Bridget rose her voice to correspond with the capital lettering.
“Bravo,” Amelia laughed, holding her sister tighter.
“It goes on,” Bridget said, grinning, evidently proud of herself for the dramatization. She continued to read: “Wrapt up in a winding-sheet, shaded with black, standing on a grave, shaking its head and bowing to them as they approached! Though they turned their backs upon the Ghost their agitation continued…they met a half-drunk, hearty old soldier, whom they knew, and who was also bearing a hot-pint to some of his friends. They told him the dreary tale, and requested him to turn. He laughed at their timidity—determined to go on.”
“When he came within view of the awful spot, he likewise saw the Ghost, as they had described it. Taking a hearty draught of the hot-pint to keep up his courage, he proceeded, and the nearer he approached, and looking over the dyke at it, he was positive it had assumed the appearance of an old woman smoking a pipe! Determined to examine it, he sprung over the wall, however, in defiance of his resolution, fear made an invasion upon him: but still despising the idea of being a coward, pressed on—”
“Men,” Amelia said, interrupted Bridget, and shook her head. “They can be such fools for bravery.”
“What do you know of men at all? Save for what you have read?” Bridget shot back. “You stay well away from them when they are actually near. At least I have a friend in Stapleton.”
“On with the story,” Amelia shot her sister’s comment down.
“So be it,” Bridget replied, and rolled her eyes with a smile, and subsequently went on with the tale. “—and with a few unsteady steps reached it; but instead of a terrific Ghost, it was only—a thorn bush waving with the wind, and clogged with the drifting snow!”
“Well, that is disappointing,” Amelia scoffed.
“No, sister, don’t you see? The Ghost thought to test him, and when he approached, it left, or rather, she.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Well, I do not know,” Bridget shot back. “I am not a ghost.”
“No,” Amelia laughed. “Though you are certainly pale enough.”
“Hush now! Sometimes you can be so cruel.”
“I am only teasing,” Amelia calmed her sister.
“You are always teasing.”
“It is my nature.”
“Just like the ghost,” Bridget said, tilting her head upwards with a smile.
“Well played,” Amelia laughed back. “Does it say where this parish yard was?”
“No,” Bridget said with a frown. “Somewhere in Scotland, I suppose.”
“Well, that is dreadfully far away. I suppose we shall never know the truth of it.”
“The truth of it?” Bridget asked incredulously. “Mother and Father would never allow us to search for ghosts.”
“In that you are correct,” Amelia sighed, but her tedious exhale was cut short by the ringing of a bell which hung on the wall. “Speaking of Mother and Father.”
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Bridget rolled her eyes yet again.
“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Amelia said. “Let us go and see what they wish of us.”
“Is it not time for luncheon?” Bridget cocked her head.
Amelia looked to the clock atop the mantle in the reading room, and sighed drearily. “So it is, though I have no appetite.”
“If you are ever to find a husband, you must be more mindful of such things. They expect it,” Bridget said coyly.
“You’ve been talking with Mother too much,” Amelia snorted. “Let us go down to them.”
* * *
The afternoon luncheon was a ladies’ ev
ent, and in the Balfour household those ladies consisted of Amelia, Bridget, and their mother Deborah Balfour, the Countess of Derswell. On the table was laid an assortment of sandwiches, likely one fifth of which would be touched, a pot of tea and another of coffee, a decanter of red wine, and a number of sweet biscuits on a multiple-tiered tray.
“Where have you girls been?” Deborah cocked her head at their arrival. “It is unseemly to be late.”
“That is why we have a bell,” Amelia answered slyly, but her mother was above such jests.
“Sit down, Amelia,” she scolded. “Your father will be here presently.”
“Father is coming?” Bridget seemed to perk up.
“I thought he was on his way to London already,” Amelia said curiously. “What is the cause of his delay?”
“You shall see when he arrives now, shan’t you?” Deborah replied. “Now let us have some luncheon,” and she clapped her hands, summoning two servants who proceeded to fill their cups with coffee and distribute sandwiches to their plates, along with a single biscuit. “The sandwiches today look particularly exquisite.”
“So they do,” Amelia’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and her mother shot her a very pointed look as she lifted up her fork.
“They are delicious,” Bridget exclaimed, taking a bite, and the tension between mother and daughter was immediately defused by their mutual love for the bubbling sixteen-year-old.
“Oh! You have all started without me,” her father’s voice broke through the elegant room, and the Earl of Derswell came into the space with a flourish, throwing his shoulders back to straighten his waistcoat and shirt.
“Come dear, sit with us,” Deborah called, gesturing to the open seat at the head of the small, family-sized table.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” he asked cheerfully, taking his station. A servant approached him with a plate but he held his hand aloft, waving them away. “I shall make due with a diet of grapes, thank you, Paul.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Paul the servant replied, and poured him a stout glass of the wine on the table.
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