The telegrams must have cost more than the boots, but he was clearly pleased with himself—and had every right to be. I flew at him and kissed him soundly. “They are perfect, and you are perfect,” I told him. “I’ve never heard of anything sweeter.”
“Except you, sweet Sybil,” he said, so of course I had to kiss him again.
Behind us the door opened. “I say, Brooke—oh, I beg your pardon.” It was the baron.
We released each other. There would be plenty of time for embraces later. “What can I do for you?” Roderick asked our host.
“The photographer I sent for has finally arrived. Clara and I would be delighted if the two of you would join us for a family portrait.”
Touched though I was, I couldn’t help asking, “Wouldn’t you rather have Vivi and George?”
The laugh lines that were so appealing emerged. “I’ve asked the photographer to stay through tomorrow so that we can drive out to have a photograph made with them. But you two are family as well, and it would mean a great deal to us.”
“We’ll join you and gladly,” I said, and Roderick added mischievously, “Just give Sybil time to put on her new boots.”
“But how do you know they’ll fit?” I asked before I could stop myself. The last thing I wanted to do was cast a cloud over his magnificent gesture, but I couldn’t help being a little apprehensive.
He winked at me. “You think I’d go to such lengths for a romantic gesture without considering that? I had them sent in every size. If this pair doesn’t fit, one of the remaining dozen will.”
Laughing, I embraced him again, uncaring that Clara’s husband was a witness.
“My hero,” I said.
VI. Clara
The photographer was a tremendous success. So many of our guests might never have otherwise had an opportunity to be photographed, and I enjoyed observing them decide how they wished to be preserved for the years to come.
Since Atticus and I had had no wedding portrait—and, indeed, the status of our marriage had changed so much since that day in any case—it was an especial pleasure to pose for a portrait together at this stage of our life. And then what delight to include Sybil and Roderick. If only Vivi and George had been able to join us, our family would have been complete. But fortunately there would be many more Christmases—and it was remarkable to think that both Vivi and I would have borne children by the time the next one arrived.
It gave me a different kind of pleasure to see young Mr. Waring and Bob bring Mrs. Flood to be photographed with them. Atticus had ridden out with Mrs. Flood in a sleigh to visit the elder Warings, and his findings had evidently satisfied all parties. Mrs. Flood was still half afraid of her great good fortune in finding her child alive and healthy.
“But you hardly know me yet,” she told Mr. Waring, as the photographer waited. “It’s too soon for me to claim to be a member of your family.”
Mr. Waring must have seen the longing in her eyes, for it was plain even to me. He took her hand. “But you are,” he said simply.
A tentative smile touched her lips, but then she looked down at little Bob, who had seemingly not let go of her hand all this while. “May I join you, Bob?”
The boy nodded, gazing up at her with an echo of her smile. Suddenly I could see a resemblance between them in the curve of their lips and the shape of their brow. It removed all doubt that the two belonged together.
I found myself blinking away a tear. How sentimental I had become since falling pregnant! Nevertheless, how could I help but be moved by this reunion of mother and child, and the new bond being forged by poor Mrs. Flood, who had suffered so much, and kind young Mr. Waring?
Then Atticus’s arm went around my waist, and I found him smiling down at me. “You’ve done good work here,” he said in an undertone.
“It wasn’t really my doing, or at least not alone. Sybil helped me connect things.”
“She is quite a force of nature,” he acknowledged. “I can see how you grew to be so fond of her, though you are so different.” Then, as if suspecting he had been too free with praise of her, he bent his head to speak softly into my ear. “She would never be as perfect a mistress of Gravesend as you, my love. Or as tender and wise a mother as you will be.”
“Flatterer,” I muttered, though I was ridiculously pleased.
“Nor would she look as magnificent in a certain purple and black gown,” he said in a different voice, and I smothered a laugh.
“I’ll be sure to wear it the next time the two of us are dining alone together,” I promised, and from the look in my husband’s eyes one might have thought that this alone had made his Christmas complete.
Only one thing remained to trouble me, and it hovered at the back of my mind through the rest of the day and into the evening, as we played charades and sang Christmas carols to the accompaniment of Roderick’s violin. When at long last we all parted to retire, I detained Sybil.
“Tell me one thing,” I said, softly so that our husbands would not hear. “Is Gravesend truly free of ghosts?”
She smiled. “I cannot claim absolute certainty, Clara, but my strong instinct is that there are no ghosts here. You needn’t worry about that.”
Despite her disclaimer, her manner was so very certain that I felt the hope rise in my heart: perhaps there were no such things as ghosts after all—either in Gravesend or in the world at large. She might have been speaking figuratively about spirits earlier, and it was possible that in her career as “medium” she was simply using dramatic techniques and knowledge of human nature—both of which she had doubtless learned from her years in the theater—to bring comfort and peace of mind to the superstitious.
The idea was wonderfully reassuring. Naturally she would not admit to such a thing, but this winking statement of hers surely meant that the world operated just as I thought—that there were no spectral inhabitants of the human sphere, no unpredictable supernatural occurrences to frighten us.
“Thank you,” I said, and embraced her. “That is my best Christmas gift—knowing that I need never fear ghosts again.”
Her brow furrowed and she made as if to speak; then, as if thinking better of it, she smiled.
“Merry Christmas, dear Clara,” she said.
Bonus Story: When Soft Voices Die
Copyright © 2016 Amanda DeWees
Note: This story takes place shortly after the action of Nocturne for a Widow, book 1 in the Sybil Ingram Victorian mystery series.
A SINGLE WOMAN CAN be a terrible inconvenience. This unhappy realization made itself known to me when fire destroyed my lodgings and I was forced to seek another place to stay.
“I’m so sorry, Sybil,” said Arabel Keith, my closest friend. “But with my brother being a young bachelor as well as the village minister, it wouldn’t be proper for you to stay with us. People would talk if we had a young widow as our houseguest, especially...”
“Especially an actress.” I repressed a sigh. Even in this enlightened year of 1873, it seemed that American sensibilities were too delicate for me, and for a moment I was homesick for England. “The village inn refused me a room,” I pointed out. “I can only suppose that they believe having an actress on the premises would transform it into a brothel.”
Arabel blushed. She was still unmarried and had lived a sheltered life. “The neighbors are all quite sympathetic,” she said hurriedly, “but they are afraid of being involved in a scandal.”
If only my fiancé and I had been married already, we could have taken lodgings together. But the burning of Roderick’s family home had thrown our lives into confusion, and it was not a propitious time for a wedding.
“There is one possibility,” Arabel ventured. “It is far from ideal, and we may have to work hard to persuade her, but let us pay Deborah Sutton a call.”
In the wilds of the Hudson River Valley, paying a neighborly call was more involved than what I had been accustomed to in London. When we reached our destination after half an hour’s journey by sl
eigh over the snow-covered country roads, Mrs. Sutton received us in the high-ceilinged, airy parlor of a large Federal-style home. Unfortunately for me, she seemed just as reluctant as everyone else to take me in.
“We’re very crowded at the moment,” she objected after Arabel had explained my predicament. She looked to be close to fifty, with intelligent dark eyes and silver threads in her dark hair. “Our sons and their families are staying with us until spring, and of course my husband’s father lives with us—”
“I would be grateful for any room, even a cupboard,” I interrupted. “As far as I am concerned, the tiniest garret room would be as luxurious as a palace, no matter how many drafts, leaks, ghosts, and mice it may have.”
Her eyes came to rest thoughtfully on mine. “Truly?” she asked, in a low voice that made me think of a mourning dove. “Ghosts would not bother you?”
“Not a whit,” I said promptly.
“You don’t believe in them, do you mean? Many scoff at the idea.”
“I believe in them, but I don’t fear them.” Perhaps I was a bit too sure of myself, but I felt quite seasoned after my encounters with Brooke House’s resident ghost. It (or rather she) had even borrowed me as a vessel to speak through, which seemed like a badge of acceptance from the spirit world. Arabel had witnessed this, which might be why she had deemed the Suttons’ a suitable residence for me. But when I caught her eye and raised my eyebrow, she only smiled enigmatically.
“Perhaps it isn’t a good idea.” Doubt was drawing a furrow in Mrs. Sutton’s brow. “I try never to put anyone in the haun—in that room.”
“If you’re troubled by a spook, perhaps I can persuade it to leave,” I said recklessly. “I have some experience in these matters.”
At this, my hostess brightened. “That is most reassuring! Very well, then, if you’re certain you won’t be afraid.”
“What sort of haunt is it?” I inquired. Most likely it was not a ghost at all, merely a combination of folklore and overactive imaginations, but it was best to be forearmed.
She considered. “I don’t want to predispose you to see something that isn’t there,” she said at length. “But you should not go in unprepared, either. Let us say that an unhappy spirit has sometimes made itself felt in that room, starting from about half a century ago. You won’t come to harm, I feel certain—no one ever has—but it can be frightening.”
“You’ve seen it yourself, then?”
She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Not exactly. But I’ve heard it.”
This intriguing statement preoccupied me as my hostess introduced me to the remainder of the family. Her husband, Mr. Amos Sutton, was a hearty and unimaginative man who seemed to find nothing odd in the idea of inviting me to stay in the unused back bedroom that, he said, was the subject of a curious prejudice among his children and servants. The house seemed surprisingly new for a haunting to have taken root there, for the date painted over the parlor mantel was 1822. Moreover, the atmosphere of conviviality seemed ill suited to ghosts; I was warmly greeted by one cheerful family member after another.
The eldest member of the household was Mr. Sutton’s father, a grizzled old sinner of seventy-five, who leered at me in a way that was all too familiar. My blonde hair tended to attract a great deal of masculine attention, not all of it welcome.
“Father Jonas, this is Mrs. Sybil Ingram Lammle,” my hostess said. “She’s the actress from England who was living in Brooke House until it burned down. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
“An actress, hey?” he exclaimed, his close-set eyes brightening. “Come sit by me, missy. I could do with a few poetical speeches murmured into my ear.”
“Have you an ear trumpet?” I inquired brightly. “If so, I shall be happy to oblige.”
Suspecting that I was mocking him, he narrowed his eyes at me and chewed on the stem of his pipe while surveying my figure again. I resolved not to get within arm’s length of the man.
Mrs. Sutton apologized for not having my room ready for me when it came time to retire, “but the servants simply refuse to enter it anymore.” I helped her make the bed—a homely domestic task that I was unaccustomed to—while taking a good look at my surroundings. The room appeared to be furnished with odds and ends, as if Mrs. Sutton had made a gesture toward treating it as a normal bedroom but did not actually expect anyone to use it—at least, no one whose opinion mattered. It was the kind of room where one might stow an unimportant spinster great-aunt.
Because all of my belongings had been burnt along with Brooke House, Mrs. Sutton also provided me with a nightdress, sheepskin slippers, and nightcap. I could not suppress a smile as I regarded the last item. Roderick had once poked fun at me for wearing a serviceable flannel nightgown instead of something more alluring, and I could only imagine with what hilarity he would have greeted me had I worn a ruffled bonnet that tied under the chin. Still, I knew it would keep me warm, and even in this room well furnished with rugs and heavy draperies, warmth was elusive.
After the emotional strain of the last two days, I was more than ready for sleep when I climbed into the tester bed—so much so that thoughts of the ghost had actually receded from my mind. The feather mattress was soft, the quilt was warm, and my mind had drifted into a hazy place near sleep when a clatter sounded somewhere in the room.
Sitting bolt upright, I groped for the safety matches on the bureau and struck a light. From where I sat nothing looked amiss, but I lit a candle and rose from the bed to investigate.
The light of the candle glinted on a metallic surface on the floor just inside the threshold, where the floorboards were not covered by a rug. To my mystification, a silver dinner fork lay there, still vibrating slightly as if from having been dropped.
When I knelt to pick it up, I found that it seemed to be an ordinary piece of tableware, though considerably tarnished. The simple pattern suggested that it dated from an earlier era, since the current fashion for such household objects was to be highly ornamented.
But that was all I learned from it. Though I examined the doorway and lintel, there was no place where the fork could have been hidden or where it could have fallen from.
The darting candlelight revealed nothing else out of the ordinary in the room, so I placed the fork on the bureau, blew out the candle, and returned to bed. All inclination toward sleep, however, had fled. I had seen objects materialize out of nothingness before, but it was still an unsettling thing to observe.
It was only a few minutes before the next occurrence. This time the sound was a muted thwop, and I felt something strike the bedclothes near my feet.
Instinctively I yanked my feet away. With my heart beating more quickly now that the intrusive presence was so close to home, I lit the candle again. A tarnished silver snuff box lay at the foot of the bed just inches from where my feet had been.
I swallowed. Even though I did not sense hostility, it was unnerving that some presence was summoning these objects out of thin air to rain down in my room. I picked up the small rectangular box with its old-fashioned scrollwork and opened it. Not even the scent of tobacco remained.
“Is anyone there?” I asked aloud, and was proud that my voice did not shake. “Are you trying to communicate with me? You may speak through me if you wish.”
I saw nothing, heard nothing. My throat constricted, and for a moment I was certain I was about to speak with the spirit’s voice, to articulate what it wanted and needed, as the Brooke House ghost had done.
But instead my throat closed, and a feeling of choking rose in me. In moments I was gasping for air, and a fear not entirely my own washed over me like a cold tide. My hands flew to my neck to protect it, but my fingers encountered nothing. I was strangling from within.
“Stop,” I managed to croak, and the iron grip on my throat relaxed at once.
Panting for breath, I snatched up the candle again and shone the light into every nook and cranny where something might be concealed. Nothing was there. Or nothing that I c
ould see. For when I had finally given up and stood still and helpless with defeat, I heard it.
A long, painful intake of breath. A choked rasp as if someone were desperately struggling to inhale...as if they were being strangled.
This time I did not extinguish the candle but wrapped myself in the quilt and sat wakeful in a chair through the rest of the night. The dying gasp did not come again, but the memory of that painful grip still lingered in my own throat and kept me from sleeping. Fear, pain, and the frustration of being unable to communicate—I felt them all, on my own behalf and on the visitant’s.
Despite my boastful confidence, I was at a loss. The terrible futility of my situation mocked me. How could I hope to give voice to a ghost that could not draw breath to speak?
AT LENGTH I DID FALL asleep, and I was almost surprised when I woke to find the fork and snuffbox still where I had placed them on the bureau. I had half believed them to be ghostly manifestations that would vanish in the light of day. When I showed them to my hosts at breakfast, however, the reaction startled me.
“Where did you get those?” old Mr. Jonas Sutton thundered.
“I merely found them in my room and wondered how they came to be there,” I said, wondering at his show of temper.
“You lying baggage.” His hand shot out to seize my wrist across the width of the dining table. “What are you playing at, girl?”
A surge of revulsion rose in me, and I flung off his hand with a violence that surprised me as much as his accusation. Collecting myself, I said more calmly, “I’ve no reason to lie. It’s as I told you—they were in my room.” Which was true as far as it went. With so many others present, including the children, I chose not to elaborate on just how the objects had come to be there.
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