The Christmas Knot

by Barbara Monajem

  “Go ahead,” he said flatly, and it occurred to her that perhaps he too was striving to control himself. Perhaps he wanted to snap at her, too. Contrite now, she nipped off another lump and then a third, which was too much, but she was cold and tired and so alone, and in future she mightn’t be able to take as much sugar as she wanted. Most likely Richard wished he could send her away, but he hadn’t been able to toss a destitute woman into the snow—not that there was any snow so far, thank heavens, but the principle was the same. Perhaps he felt it would be too unkind to ask her to leave immediately but regretted being stuck with her.

  She passed the sugar back to him and took a deep breath, reminding herself once again to keep to the business at hand. “I asked her why she can’t just tell me where the necklace is. She said she was doing her best, and that I should look about me.” She paused, stirring her tea. “And that there wasn’t much time.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Richard burst out. “There’s no bloody time.”

  “That’s why I wanted to speak to you immediately. It’s hard to say what she means by no time—she’s been haunting the house for over two hundred years—but it’s easier to discuss this when neither of the children are here.”

  “Is it?” he asked. She had no idea what he meant by that, but he went on as if it didn’t matter. “Doing her best, is she? And how is dropping a lantern doing her best?”

  “I asked her that, but she didn’t answer. She had already gone.”

  “How can you tell that she’s gone? In fact, how do you know she’s speaking to you at all? How do you know it’s not your imagination?”

  “Because it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. I’m just between sleeping and waking when I hear her voice, very clearly, but she never gets more than a few sentences out. I think once I’m thoroughly awake, she can’t communicate with me anymore.” Annoyed at his blank expression, she took a sip of tea, burned the roof of her mouth, and cursed in a most unladylike way. “I don’t understand why you’re so skeptical all of a sudden. A few days ago, you seemed to think the house truly was haunted.”

  “Oh, I do think it’s haunted,” he said. “As to what form the ghost takes, what she can do, whether she can communicate with the living…” He shrugged, making it utterly plain where his real doubt lay—Edwina’s veracity.

  “You’re not obliged to believe me,” she retorted, “but I am obliged to tell you what I hear.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate it.”

  How polite, but he meant it was worth nothing. She wanted to hit him, to scream and pound his chest and make him believe her. Instead, she clutched the tea cup and controlled herself.

  He stirred his tea. “If it’s your imagination, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because you don’t know where it is. If she’s really speaking to you, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because that would amount to breaking the curse, which she cannot do. I believe I have to do that.”

  She did her best to be as impartial, as detached as he, regardless of how much it hurt. “Are you saying I shouldn’t look for the necklace?”

  “No, no, I need all the help I can get. I don’t have to actually find the damned thing. I merely have to present it to my wife.”

  His wife. She tried her very hardest not to care.

  “So,” he said after a cold silence. “Dropping a lantern is doing her best, and we should look about ourselves. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since the day I arrived here?”

  “I’m sure you have, but perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong way.” His expression was scornful, but doggedly she persevered. “Perhaps…perhaps the key to the whereabouts of the necklace is obvious, if only one can see it. Perhaps she is speaking to me because I can see the Grange with fresh eyes.”

  “Perhaps,” he said absently, rubbing his face. Obviously he thought she was wasting her time—or more importantly, his.

  Too bad—she would not give up. “I looked about my bedchamber, but nothing struck me.”

  “Because nothing in your bedchamber is old enough to be relevant.”

  “Yes, I realized that. But I shall go over the rest of the house and make an inventory of everything that is or even might be old enough.”

  “I’ve already done that.” He paused. “But go ahead. It can’t hurt to go over everything again.”

  Did he truly think to placate her this way? She glared at him, read the naked weariness on his face, and her heart twisted. How selfish of her to return always to her own pain, when he was in danger of losing his son. He was tired and discouraged, and no wonder.

  She knew an urge to hug and comfort him, but that would never do. A proper governess didn’t hug her employer, even in sympathy. She curled her fingers around the warm cup and said nothing.

  “I think I’m wasting my time in the cellar,” he said after a while. “I searched there mostly because both John and the various treasure hunters were convinced it was the ideal place to bury the murdered lover, but the treasure hunters found nothing in the sections they dug up. All they did was make a mess that will take several men a few days to fix. Even if Sir Joshua buried a body there without anyone knowing, he couldn’t have hidden the evidence of what he’d done so well that no one would notice.”

  “Maybe that’s what she meant!” Edwina said. “I’ll bet that’s why she dropped the lantern—to tell you to leave the cellar.”

  He huffed. “That makes very little sense. I wouldn’t leave the cellar for such a stupid reason. Only a woman would come up with something like that.”

  “The ghost is a woman,” Edwina said through clenched teeth.

  He laughed, and the weariness dissipated—but only for a second. “So she is. If that’s what she wanted, she has her way. More tea?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Richard feared that he was beginning to think like a woman. Not about falling lanterns, of course, but in a complicated way. Usually, he knew what he wanted and persevered until he got it. When it came to Edwina, he couldn’t think straight.

  He wanted to bed her—of course. Marry her? He didn’t know. He’d been through one uneasy marriage and couldn’t stomach another. He didn’t quite trust Edwina; didn’t want to have to trust her, particularly over this business of the ghost. He couldn’t afford to let himself be led about by his cock, which meant he dare not agree wholeheartedly with her, dare not let her think she was succeeding, even if she wasn’t trying to succeed in anything but helping out. But what if she wasn’t lying? What if she was entirely sincere and trustworthy and as lovable as he wanted her to be? What if he was destroying his chances by treating her with circumspection?

  Far too complicated, but he would have to make up his mind about her soon.

  But not yet. Bedding her would mean marrying her, so he couldn’t bed her, and meanwhile she sat across from him, naked under very little clothing, smelling of sleep and woman, and exhausted and dispirited though he was, his cock couldn’t ignore her.

  He refilled both their cups, and for a while longer they sat in silence. He felt her surreptitious glances but didn’t return them. At last he said, “Time to go to bed.” He felt himself reddening and gave thanks for the darkness. “Which reminds me, with regard to our plans for Christmas, I think you should visit Miss Bickford, the vicar’s sister, tomorrow. She knows all the villagers and will introduce you to everyone.”

  ~ * ~

  In what possible way did going to bed remind him of the vicar’s sister? Edwina wondered as she returned to her chamber. Was Miss Bickford an attractive woman? She would have to be quite a bit younger than the vicar to be a prospect for marriage.

  Edwina curled up under the covers and tried not to think about Miss Bickford. Tried not to think about how Richard didn’t trust her, about how his eyes had burned with passion twelve years ago and now gazed upon her with indifference. Perhaps, once they had found the necklace, he would warm toward her again…if he hadn’t married Miss Bickford
or some other lady in the vicinity…if it wasn’t already too late…

  ~ * ~

  What is wrong with you modern women? the ghost asked irritably. He’s just a man. Use your woman’s wiles. Lead him by his cock.

  Edwina groaned into wakefulness, but before she could frame a question, the ghost was gone. Damn, thought Edwina. She would have to learn how to keep herself in that semi-awake state if she wanted to get more information from the ghost, who was beginning to remind her of her Aunt Jane, the most forthright of her relatives, unfortunately deceased. Not that Aunt Jane would have put it quite as crudely as the ghost, but she had never stinted on advice.

  Perhaps this particular advice was worth following. It didn’t matter whether the ghost was reprimanding Edwina for not flirting with Richard—which was well-nigh impossible at the moment—or preparing her for a possible rival in Miss Bickford. Why shouldn’t she at least make herself a little more attractive?

  She was sick and tired of trying to conceal her natural good looks. Richard had encouraged her to make herself some clothing, so he had no cause for complaint if she did exactly that. She would pay him out of her fifty pounds. She might even find fabric to make a new wrapper, in case of any further trysts in the small hours.

  That wasn’t a tryst. It wasn’t the ghost speaking, but rather her own commonsense. That conversation in the kitchen had been as far from a tryst as possible for a woman in her nightclothes and a good-looking man who had once been her lover. There was little likelihood of dalliance, now or in the future, with Richard Ballister.

  She got out of bed, yawning, and opened the curtains upon a grey morning. She eyed herself in the mirror. She couldn’t do anything about the bruise, which had developed into an ugly purplish splotch on her cheek, and it would take time to make new gowns, but she could certainly dress her hair more becomingly. She let some of her curls frame her face, whilst tying the rest back with her only colorful ribbon—a red one. Pleased with the effect, she went down to breakfast.

  “Oh, your hair is so pretty this morning!” Lizzie cried.

  Edwina smiled and thanked her, carefully avoiding Richard’s eye but catching John’s instead as he looked up from his primer. “Mrs. White is pretty whatever she does with her hair.” The boy grinned; he would be a great charmer when he grew up.

  He would grow to manhood. Edwina had made up her mind to that.

  Richard chuckled. “True, but I think we all prefer this way of dressing your hair, Mrs. White.” Heavens, he seemed almost friendly this morning.

  “Can you make my hair look like that?” Lizzie asked.

  “Not quite,” Edwina said, glad of the change of subject. “Yours will look better because it’s not as uncontrollably curly as mine.”

  “We shall order green ribbons,” Lizzie said, “to go with my new green gown. I want my hair to look like that for the Christmas feast. That red ribbon is perfect for you, Mrs. White! I knew red would become you. You must make a red gown to go with your ribbon.”

  “Governesses don’t wear red gowns,” Edwina reminded Lizzie gently, whilst yearning tugged at her. Oh, to dress in festive crimson like the young, passionate Edwina who had once captured Richard Ballister’s heart.

  Oh, what was she thinking? The past was gone and best forgotten; the last thing she needed to do was revive it with a crimson gown. “I shall call on Miss Bickford this morning. Do you wish to come with me, or shall I leave you some lessons and go on my own?”

  Lizzie made a face. “Miss Bickford always makes me recite, so I shall stay here.”

  The vicar’s sister proved to be an elderly lady with a cheerful mien and even less tact than her brother. “Oh, you are pretty, just as James—my brother, you know—said. That will certainly set tongues wagging, but what choice does poor Sir Richard have? I dare swear he doesn’t object at all. More likely he’s giving thanks for his good fortune.”

  Heavens, thought Edwina, did she just wink at me?

  “But what a dreadful bruise on your cheek!” the lady went on. “However did that happen?”

  Edwina hesitated, then said, “Tell me, Miss Bickford, do you believe in ghosts—specifically, the ghost of Lady Ballister?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, her rheumy eyes eager. “More important, do you?”

  “A few days ago, I did not,” Edwina said, “but the ghost awakened me yesterday morning with a slap—hence this bruise.”

  “Oh, excellent. Not the bruise, my dear, but that you now believe in her. I’m sure the ghostly Lady Ballister appreciates that. How vexing to be ignored, don’t you think? Worse than ignored, if people don’t even believe one exists. If I die before my brother—which is likely in the course of nature—I hope I shall be permitted to haunt the vicarage. Just to tease him a little, you know.”

  Edwina decided she liked the vicar’s sister very much.

  “I wonder, though,” Miss Bickford went on, “are ghosts allowed to haunt vicarages? It might be considered sacrilegious.”

  “In that case, your brother will be obliged to exorcise you,” Edwina said.

  Miss Bickford broke into peals of laughter. “I see we shall get along very well. I hope you stay in our village a long, long time.”

  “I hope so, too,” Edwina said, adding immediately, “John and Lizzie are far more charming and well-behaved than the other children I have taught.” Perhaps that would diffuse any suspicions that Edwina had designs upon Sir Richard. Seeing the twinkle in Miss Bickford’s eye, she doubted it. Well, they would find out soon enough when Edwina left in the New Year—although they would probably think he had sent her packing. Mentally, she threw up her hands. None of this was of any consequence. She intended to make the most of the Christmas festivities, and the best way to do that was to forget about the future for now.

  Upon hearing Edwina’s errand, Miss Bickford entered with great enthusiasm into the plan. She donned her walking shoes and a warm cloak. They set out immediately to call on several of the villagers and made arrangements to visit more on the morrow.

  There followed several days of frenetic activity—designing and cutting clothing and bringing it to the seamstress, meeting with all the villagers, and sending for the necessary supplies. The seamstress was competent. The villagers as a whole were simple, superstitious people, but kind-hearted and welcoming. If it hadn’t been for the sword of Damocles hanging over John’s head, the preparations would have been great fun.

  Edwina kept one gown secret and sewed it herself at night—a crimson one. How foolish to dwell on memories of that waltz so long ago, but she couldn’t help herself. Most likely she wouldn’t even wear it come Christmas Day. She didn’t wish to give the wrong impression to Richard or to the village as a whole. Even if she could overcome her scruples, she didn’t think she could wear anything so truly festive unless the ruby necklace was found.

  Despite daily vigilance, despite examining every item in the house with a questioning eye, she came no closer to finding the necklace, and the ghost, whose snippets of information she had come to hope for, only muttered nightly about women’s wiles, advised Edwina to look about herself, and warned more and more urgently about time running out. Ten more days, eight, seven, five…

  Edwina recognized the need for haste, but it wasn’t the right time for woman’s wiles, what with Richard searching day and night, growing ever more tense and hollow-eyed. Not that she didn’t want him; in unguarded moments, she eyed him and ached with longing. In bed at night, in darkness and solitude, she replayed the waltz in her mind, recalling the heady excitement of his closeness. She envisioned being swept away to a bedchamber, imagined his lips and hands on her bare skin and his shaft moving inside her.

  And then rolled over and banished these useless desires. How unworthy to become consumed with lust at such a time! She thrust her lecherous thoughts away and swore to look about her even harder.

  Three days before Christmas, she stood before the portrait of Sir Joshua, trying to read those hard, calculating eyes. J
ohn came up beside her. “Horrid, isn’t he? Sometimes I look at him and try to be him in my mind. When he killed the lover, how did he decide where to put the body and the necklace so that no one would ever find them?”

  Edwina turned to the boy. “How, indeed?”

  “The ghost doesn’t like me when I try to think like Sir Joshua, but how else am I to figure out where the necklace is?” He smirked. “Lizzie told me she speaks to you. Well, she speaks to me, too. I haven’t told Papa because he already thinks I am weak-minded, which is shameful for a boy.”

  “Did he say that?” Edwina demanded, outraged.

  “No, but that’s what he believes. Don’t tell him I told you the ghost talks to me.”

  “Very well, I shan’t, but you’re entirely wrong about what he thinks. He is full of admiration for your courage.”

  One side of John’s mouth quirked up. “Do you really think so? I was afraid that since he already sees me as weak, he might think me mad if I told him I can hear the ghost speak. She says I am a lovely, studious boy.” He rolled his eyes. His assumption of nonchalance made Edwina’s insides churn. “She doesn’t want me to die young, but she also says being dead isn’t so very bad, although it’s no fun being stuck as a ghost. But none of the other firstborns haunt the Grange, so I’m not worried about that.”

  Edwina tried to contain her dismay. “I wish you didn’t have to worry at all.”

  John grimaced. “Papa looks awfully tired. If I do die soon, I want you to take good care of him and Lizzie.”

  “I shall,” Edwina said without thinking, and then decided not to contemplate the ramifications of this rash promise. “But I would rather make sure you live to old age.”

  John left, and she continued around the portrait gallery, examining the oldest paintings for clues, and returned at last to Sir Joshua. “Where did you hide it, you evil man?”

  Needless to say, Sir Joshua stood proud, aloof and silent, with the knot garden behind him on the one hand and fields stretching away on the other. His second wife, whose placid vapidity probably suited Sir Joshua down to the ground, posed before the same backdrop. She wouldn’t know the answer, even if Edwina could ask her.