The Christmas Knot

by Barbara Monajem

  “If there is a ghost, and if she really does guard the necklace, I shall find it,” Richard said. “If she doesn’t exist, the necklace may still be here someplace, in which case I shall find it. If it isn’t here, there’s no harm in a charade.”

  “I suppose not,” she admitted, “but I don’t like the idea of deceiving John.”

  His worry lines deepened. “Nor do I, but I’ll do whatever I must to save him.”

  “I understand that, but if the ghost knows you would trick your son…” She huffed. “Oh, how absurd. Now I’m talking as if I believe she exists.”

  He smiled, and her heart turned over. Why must he make long-forgotten love well up inside her, when she had finally found sufficient reason not to despise him and was content with that?

  “If you were the ghost, would you give me the necklace?” he asked.

  “To save John? Yes, of course.” She dammed up the fountain of useless love. “For any other reason, definitely not.”

  His expression faded from rueful inquiry to scornful indifference. She knew she was being irrational—after all, of what value was a necklace to a ghost? At least a man could put it to good use, even if he was in debt—but when it came to Richard Ballister, she couldn’t afford to give a hypothetical inch.

  Be practical, then. Be as no-nonsense as he is. She halted, one foot on the bottom step of a graceful flight that led to the massive, carved front doors. “Setting aside the fact that ghosts don’t exist, how can you work on two assumptions at once? It’s impossible!”

  Richard was right behind her. “Why? It’s like having two different strategies at cards or chess. The next step depends on other factors, such as the fall of the cards and the opponent’s move.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that; games were one thing and reality another. “I wonder why the ghost didn’t cause much trouble up till now, apart from the curse.” Oh, damn! She didn’t believe any of this nonsense, but once again she was acting as if she did. “Did no one else look for the necklace?”

  “Indeed they did. One of my predecessors even recorded where he searched. I think it’s the recent treasure seekers who have disturbed her, so to speak. The legend says the curse will end when the necklace is given to the rightful lady of the Grange—which it won’t be if a treasure seeker makes away with it.”

  “You make it sound as if the ghost wants the curse to end.”

  “John seems to think so, and why wouldn’t she? Perhaps she regrets her hasty action so long ago. Perhaps she is consumed with guilt for the sadness she has caused. Perhaps she can’t bear to harm another innocent firstborn son. I can only hope so.”

  Again, Edwina remembered the words that had awakened her in the night: You’re finally here, thank the Lord. Come, we must save him!

  No. Surely not. She hurried up the steps.

  “Do you see now why it doesn’t help to disagree with John’s conclusions?” Richard said.

  She shook off the memory of that voice. “Very well, I shan’t disagree anymore, but if I suddenly pretend to believe, he will see right through it.”

  “Perhaps you will come to believe,” Richard said. “The ghost may yet visit you at night.”

  Should she tell him about the voice? Trying to decide, she pretended to examine the carving on the doors, a woven geometric design vaguely reminiscent of the strapwork in the Great Hall.

  “Perhaps Lizzie’s footsteps woke you before the ghost had a chance,” he said, politely waiting to open the door—and then he turned. “Ah, here is our vicar. He doesn’t usually accompany John home, so I assume he wishes to meet you.”

  Thankful to avoid any more talk about the ghost, she followed him back down the steps. John ran up ahead of a grey, middle-aged man with a stoop and a tentative smile.

  “We got on wonderfully with Greek lessons today,” John said. He waved a sheaf of papers by way of proof. “Didn’t we, Mr. Bickford?”

  “Yes, indeed,” the vicar said. “No more Aesop for you. You’re a clever young fellow and advancing at a great rate. And this is the new governess—a lady who reads Latin! Unusual, but John is pleased, as he can spend more time with me on Greek.”

  Richard introduced them. “I hope you have the courage to remain at the Grange a while, Mrs. White,” the vicar said.

  She shook his hand. “I hope so, too.”

  “There are a couple of strangers at the Duck’s Head, Sir Richard,” Mr. Bickford said. “I don’t blame Teas for giving them lodging—everyone’s so poor hereabouts, and worse since no one will stay at the Grange—but I fear they have come to make a nuisance of themselves.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Richard said, “but the dog will warn me, and I’ll load a weapon or two just in case.”

  Mr. Bickford shook his head sadly. “What a pity you had to get rid of your gamekeeper. You shouldn’t have to defend your own house.”

  Richard shrugged. “Until I find the necklace, I have no choice.”

  The vicar said his goodbyes and ambled away, tut-tutting. “Far too attractive for a governess,” he murmured well before he was out of earshot, “widow or not.”

  Edwina felt the blush rise up her cheeks.

  “I told him you were pretty for a widow,” John said. “I think he came to see for himself.” He tugged open one of the huge doors, which creaked in protest, and went inside.

  How embarrassing. She hadn’t thought about this aspect of her presence. People might see it as improper—a young, attractive widow being too much of a temptation for a virile man. Richard had probably advertised for a widow to avoid the possibility of compromising an unmarried lady, expecting an older woman who wouldn’t be seen as a prospect for dalliance.

  As if there wasn’t already enough to worry about, now she must fear being thought Richard’s mistress. She stormed into the house.

  “Let them think what they like,” Richard said indifferently.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?” she snapped. “Why did you have to get rid of your gamekeeper?”

  “Because he took bribes in return for access to the house while it was empty,” Richard said. “That’s how so many of the treasure seekers got into the cellars. If he’d driven them off in the first place, we mightn’t have had this problem, but now the villagers don’t discourage it because it brings them some income. Ordinarily, I would have many of them in my employ, but the ghost has frightened them away. I can’t blame them for making a little extra any way they can.”

  “You’re very forgiving,” Edwina said.

  “They’re my villagers,” he said. “My responsibility. If I can’t take care of them, what choice do they have but to shift for themselves?”

  Edwina found plenty to occupy her for the rest of the day, what with mending torn clothing and continuing the children’s lessons—blissfully nothing to do with curses or ghosts, although John’s predicament weighed heavily on her mind. Meanwhile, Richard went through every nook and cranny of three rooms on the first floor of the sinister wing, searching for secret spaces. He found only one—a priest’s hole that had been added in the seventeen hundreds, about which he already knew. “Tomorrow we’ll do another three,” he said at dinner. “John, you can help me. Perhaps Lizzie and Mrs. White can try the attics. We’ve been through them once, but another search wouldn’t hurt.”

  “The attics are full of old things. We can bring down costumes for dressing up,” Lizzie said. “Oh! May we dance this evening, Papa?”

  After a gasp of a silence, Richard said, “Why not, if Mrs. White will be so kind as to play for us?”

  “I should be happy to,” Edwina said, which wasn’t entirely true. While she stayed in close proximity to Richard Ballister, unwelcome memories were bound to intrude, but she mustn’t let them get in her way.

  In due course she found herself seated at the pianoforte in the portrait gallery. Richard had lit several branches of candles, a contrast to the utter blackness outside the leaded windows. A posturing gentleman with a bea
rd and a vast lace collar glared at her from a huge painting high on the wall.

  “That’s Sir Joshua,” John said. “Don’t you think he looks the murderous sort?”

  “No, he just looks conceited,” Edwina said. “Is the lady in the next portrait his wife?”

  “His second wife,” Richard said. “If there was a portrait of his first wife, he destroyed it.”

  The second wife’s collar was lacier than Sir Joshua’s and decorated with pearls. She gazed calmly into the distance, the perfect, elegant wife—much like what Edwina had been to Harold White. How had she felt, Edwina wondered, knowing that her husband might be a murderer? Harold hadn’t killed anyone, as far as Edwina knew, but he’d been a selfish, unscrupulous man. She’d learned soon enough how to manipulate him, but she’d hated the need to do so.

  Perhaps that was why Richard’s plan to deceive John, even if necessary, bothered her so much. He cared for his children and his dependents, and yet here was proof that he wasn’t completely honest. She already knew that, so why did she want to trust him? She should have more sense.

  She set melancholy thoughts aside and found some music for a country dance, while John perused a book about mathematics. She was trying hard not to show her anxiety for him and thankful that playing the music would occupy her mind.

  Richard patiently took his daughter through the steps of two country dances, over and over again—although he pretended not to know what he was doing and let her do most of the leading. “It would be better with four people, of course,” Lizzie said, out of breath at the end. “But John refuses to dance, and someone must play for us. Do you waltz, Mrs. White?”

  The sudden change of subject caught Edwina off guard. “I have done so, but not lately.”

  “Dance with Mrs. White, Papa, and I shall play for you,” Lizzie said. “Waltzes are easy to play.”

  “I don’t think…” Edwina began.

  Richard raised a sardonic brow, making her want to hit him. “Surely you haven’t forgotten how?”

  No, and she hadn’t forgotten what had happened next, either.

  “Please, Mrs. White! I love watching people waltz.” Lizzie ran over to the pianoforte and rummaged through the sheets of music. “My grandmother and grandfather held a ball in America, and John and I peeked at all the people through the balusters. Papa and Mama waltzed together, twirling and whirling around the room. That was before Mama grew ill and died.” She paused, a stricken look on her face. Was she thinking of her dead mother or the prospect of losing her brother?

  Her lower lip trembled, but she took a deep breath and chose a sheet of music. “Oh, here’s the one I know best.” She sat on the bench, practically forcing Edwina out of the way.

  After that extraordinary display of fortitude in one so much younger, what could Edwina do but comply?

  Richard put out his hand. “Come, let us twirl and whirl.”

  Doubly uncomfortable now, Edwina took his hand. She wasn’t a replacement for his wife, nor did she wish to recreate in the slightest way her own brief experience as his lover years before, yet she couldn’t bear to disappoint Lizzie. Her ungloved hand felt hot and heavy in Richard’s while Lizzie got herself settled and pounded the first few chords. Then he took her by the waist and they were off.

  ~ * ~

  Why bother fighting it? Richard didn’t trust her, and she was too prickly to deal with, too bitter about something he didn’t understand, but he wanted her anyway. Wanted her to burn for him now the way she had burned so many years ago.

  That she didn’t feel the same way was entirely clear. She followed his lead, but with stiffness in her posture and a lag in her step. She gazed sternly over his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “You used to dance better than this,” he said.

  That brought her head around, but only to glare at him and turn away again, nose in the air.

  “I thought we were to let bygones be bygones,” he said.

  “That was your idea, not mine,” she muttered, “and it is impossible when you force me to waltz with you.”

  That annoyed him enough that he whispered, “You needn’t worry, Edwina. There is no terrace to sweep you away to. There are no nearby bushes to hide in or a wall to—”

  “How dare you!” she hissed, but she was trapped, and her furious face and flaming cheeks said she knew it. She would look a fool if she broke from his arms and ran away. Not only that, she would upset the children—something he knew without a doubt that she would do her utmost to avoid. How odd; in some ways he did trust her after all.

  “Sorry, my dear, but I can’t help but have fond memories of that night.” He gazed down at her averted face. “I thought you would feel the same way.”

  She shrugged.

  “We enjoyed ourselves, and luckily there was no harm done.” Except to my heart.

  “None at all,” she replied a little too fiercely. “You went your way and I went mine.”

  “And now fate has brought us together again,” he said softly. “Everything has changed, but can’t we enjoy a waltz?”

  ~ * ~

  Oh, God, yes—but she mustn’t let him know how much she wanted to do just as she’d done before. She wanted the music to inflame her passions. She wanted to follow his lead, to twirl and fly with the music, to go anywhere he took her, to succumb to him behind a bush, against a wall, in a bed…

  There were plenty of beds nearby. How dare he say she needn’t worry? Again, a ghastly thought stirred her—had he paid her in advance not for educating his children, but for gracing his bed?

  Very well, she would ask him. “Is that why you gave me fifty pounds? So I would feel obliged to—to give in to your advances?”

  His face darkened, and his hand tightened on hers. “You deserve to be slapped, Edwina. Fortunately for you, I never use violence against a woman.”

  “I shall take that as a no,” she said, refusing to quail under that scowl. “You’re hurting my hand.”

  Immediately, he loosened his grasp. “I beg your pardon. As for your question, a decent employer does not tup the governess. Now that we have settled that small matter, may we please enjoy this dance?” He paused. “For Lizzie’s sake?”

  His expression was suddenly so rueful that she gave in, whether for Lizzie’s sake, for his or for her own, she didn’t know. She let herself go, let herself feel the delightful rhythm of the waltz, which Lizzie played with great gusto.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  Yes, but it allowed the rhythm of the dance to thrum in her blood, which coursed through her veins and set every limb on fire with pleasure and desire. It’s not only better, it’s dangerous. She kept her gaze firmly on his waistcoat, for her eyes would all too clearly reveal the arousal that beat within her, just as it had back then. She dare not smile, she dare not enjoy herself too much, and yet her lips curled of their own accord, and her body’s demands refused to abate.

  He was smiling slightly too, his lips parted, and longing and desire roared through her again at the memory of his kisses. She stifled a groan as they whirled up the room toward the pianoforte. She got hold of herself and sent a smile at Lizzie, who grinned back. Then they whirled away again for more pleasurable torment.

  At last the waltz came to an end. Richard let her go and bowed. “Thank you for the delightful dance, Mrs. White.”

  She curtsied, but no words came to her lips that wouldn’t reveal how shaken she was. She nodded and smiled again at Lizzie. “You play the waltz very well.”

  “I adore waltzes,” she said. “Will you please play so Papa can dance with me?”

  It was long before Edwina slept that night. How could she stay at the Grange, when her attraction to Richard had surfaced in such a powerful way? He’d said he wouldn’t tup the governess—such a rude way to put it, although she’d probably deserved it. She wanted to believe him, to trust him, but he had lied to her before.

  More to the point, why had the desire resurfaced so strongly?

&
nbsp; She thought she knew the answer—sheer loneliness. If she weren’t so bereft of loved ones, she would have more control over her emotions. But she didn’t have any loved ones and probably never would, so she would just have to control herself without them.

  Doubtless the approach of Christmas, her favorite season, played a part in her lack of self-control…

  Mortification washed over her. What was wrong with her, maundering on about her own troubles while poor John feared imminent death? Her loneliness was nothing compared to John’s predicament.

  Heaven help them all, it was only two weeks to Christmas. Two weeks to find the necklace. To the devil with her own problems. All her concentration must be on solving John’s.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Someone was muttering to Edwina, urging her to do something, but she couldn’t quite make out what the voice was saying. What? she asked. What do you want? She strained her ears, but the voice, strangely disembodied, sounded muffled as if at a distance. Was that a hand shaking her? Last chance, she thought the voice said. Not much time. She struggled, pushing the hand away.

  A shriek shattered the dream. Must I do everything myself? the voice cried, clearly now. Edwina sat up in bed, heart hammering as it had the night before. She shoved open the bed curtains and glanced about the dark room, then went to the casement and parted the curtains. Moonlight poured through the windows, giving enough light to show that she was alone. Just to be sure, she lit a taper and checked under her bed. Needless to say, there was no one.

  She left the curtains open and got back into bed, furious with herself. She was letting her imagination rule her, which was probably what had happened to the other governesses, too. Well, she would not allow herself to be bullied by her own mind.

  Somewhere below, the dog Felix howled.

  Raaasp! Clank, rasp!

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. What was that dreadful noise? Into the ensuing silence came a terrified shout—from outdoors?

  She got out of bed again. She would not act like a hysterical fool. That rasping was not made by a ghost—of that Edwina was one hundred per cent sure. The voice from outdoors was no apparition either. She crept to her window once more and peered out.