The Kiss at Midnight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  He knew he always would.

  She turned from the windows then, almost as if she knew.

  “Tell me again,” she said, her gaze locking on his. “Was there truly a seahorse on my back?”

  Greyson blinked, having long since forgotten what he now suspected had only been a trick of the light.

  “Aye, well…” He left the bed and went to her, naked as he was. “I did think I saw such a mark,” he said, speaking true. “But when I looked again, it’d vanished.”

  “You did see it, though?”

  “That was months ago, sweetness.” He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. “The first time I made love to you. Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” she said, slipping away from him to touch the frame that held the silver bit of cloth from her special shawl. A double-glassed frame he’d had specially made to enclose the silk so that it could be viewed from both sides.

  The frame, fine silver he’d splurged on, hung by an equally silver ribbon in her favorite window – the one that gave a partial view of the rooftops of Aberdeen. She looked that way now, and he could tell by her silhouette that she was smiling.

  But when she turned back to him, she appeared more earnest than he’d ever seen her.

  “You didn’t want to speak of it then and I didn’t press you,” she said, her hand still on the dangling frame. “We were, after all-”

  “We were otherwise occupied.” Greyson couldn’t hold back his smile. Nor could he stop another sharp tugging in his loins. “I was so besotted I couldn’t bear to share you with words.”

  “Do you think I was any less desirous?”

  “Nae,” he said, his smile spreading. “You are the earthiest, most wildly passionate bride I could ever have wished.”

  “Am I still?” She leaned up on her toes and kissed him. “Will you always want me?”

  Greyson frowned.

  How could she doubt him?

  “Sweet lass, I would spend every waking moment up here, loving you roundly and ne’er stopping until the end of all days.”

  “That is lust, not love.”

  “We will speak of love at the year’s end.” He had to be firm. He’d never forgive himself if the hardships of his life wearied her. And though things were much better than he’d dared to hope – a wildly popular writer had rented a room in the Gannet House basement to use days as a secluded writing office, paying a huge rent because he so wished and could, claiming it was worth the inspiration he found in such an atmospheric old house.

  He’d also engaged Greyson’s assistance in research, wanting to use his knowledge of ships, sailing, and the far northern seas in a new series he was penning about Vikings.

  In payment, he’d promised Greyson a small percentage of royalties.

  Still…

  He suspected Irwin Russell’s landowning friend, or even a Dudding, would have made her a much more suitable husband, financially.

  “The time will pass soon enough,” he said, knowing he was the better man for her in every other way.

  “Nae.” She shook her head. “I would hear the words now.”

  “Lass.” He frowned as she crossed to the room and bent to scoop her discarded gown off the garret’s hard, wood-planked floor.

  Wiggle had apparently been napping under the gown for he sped away now, running to the windows where he leapt about on a ‘ladder’ of branches Greyson had built for him in the corner.

  Greyson sighed, watching him. Sometimes he wished his own life could be so simple.

  More than anything, he wanted Ophelia happy.

  “Precious lass,” he began again, “I have told you why I cannae say the words.”

  “And I have waited.” She pulled the gown over her head, covering her sweetness, a determined glint in her eyes. “Now I am tired. Not of you, my heart, but of the silence. So listen, and hear me well. There is no reason to delay.”

  Greyson snatched an ancient plaid off a chair and threw it on before he answered. “Nothing has changed. When the year is met-”

  “You saw the seahorse,” she said, making no sense at all.

  “So?”

  “It means I have found happiness,” she told him, her voice thick. “True love, and the greatest ever contentment. Supposedly, you should feel the same.”

  He did.

  But he was also a Highlander.

  His damnable pride held his tongue.

  “See here, lass-”

  “No, you must see.” She dashed at her cheek and he was horrified to see a tear track glistening on her petal-smooth skin. “Do you know why my silver shawl is so special? Why it means so much to me?”

  “I ken thon wee piece of it near maddened me until I found you,” he admitted.

  “There is more.” She went again to the windows, turning her back to him as she spoke…

  “Many years ago, when my parents still lived, my father took us on a short holiday to Skye,” she told him, her voice soft, gentled by reminiscence. “It was the most exhilarating time, such a joy.” She paused, a visible chill rippling through her. “I should say that was so until the morning I walked a beach alone and had to see hundreds of tiny seahorses washing ashore.”

  “Seahorses?” Greyson crossed the room to her, but remained standing a foot or so behind her. “Were they alive?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice hitching. “But they shouldn’t have been there. They belong in deep water, far out to sea. Yet they kept coming ashore. I ran up and down the beach, gathering them by the handfuls, returning them to the water.

  “And then…” She turned to him, her cheeks wet. “I noticed a woman doing the same. She looked otherworldly. Beautiful and full of grace, with long and gleaming golden hair. She wore a shimmering green gown and a silver shawl.”

  This time Greyson felt a chill. “Your shawl?”

  She nodded. “Yes, she gave it to me afterward. She told me we’d done all we could, rescued as many of the seahorses as were meant to be saved.

  “Then” – she swiped at her eyes – “she said that they’d felt our love and that in gratitude, someday my shawl would return that love, letting me know when the man destined for me entered my life.”

  Greyson stared at her, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.

  His heart pounded and, gods help him, he felt a terrible stinging heat behind his eyes.

  “Did she tell you how you’d know this?” He didn’t know how he could speak.

  “No. She just looked out to sea and smiled. I followed her gaze and when I turned back to her, she was gone.”

  “But the shawl remained?”

  “It did.”

  “Mother of all the gods.” Greyson pulled a hand down over his face. “She was of the fey.”

  “So I believe,” his lady said, no longer bothering to stem her tears. “And you know what this means?”

  He did.

  Leastways, he hoped. “The circle is complete. The seahorses have repaid their debt to you.”

  She closed the short space between them, slid her arms around him. “It is surely so.”

  “I’ll no’ argue, sweet.” He wouldn’t.

  Instead, he dropped to one knee and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “My precious lass,” he said, looking up at her. “Can you forgive me for keeping my love from you?”

  To his great joy, she beamed. “Can you accept my apologies for pushing you?” she asked, her tears spilling onto his hand. “Will you give me one more indulgence?”

  Greyson stood, biting back a chuckle. “Anything you wish, my love.”

  Her eyes lit, her high spirits returning. “Can we stay up here a while longer?”

  “You are no’ too sore?” Greyson glanced at the mussed bed. “I’d no’ hurt you.”

  “I am too sore, yes,” she admitted, as always honest in her passion. “I would like to try one more time to see Arbuckle’s ghost.”

  Now Greyson did chuckle. “I am no’ sure he’ll oblige us. There has
n’t been a single howl from his dog, nor even a creaky floorboard anywhere in the house since your arrival.”

  “That’s just it.” She smiled. “I have a feeling this is the night.”

  “You had a feeling at St. Nicholas, too.”

  “This is different.”

  “How so?”

  “Artists are sensitive,” she told him, serious now. “He will have wanted to leave us peace to-”

  “Make love in his garret every gloaming?”

  “Perhaps.” She didn’t even blush. “I have heard he had a way with women in his younger years. He will not have forgotten love.”

  “Humph.” Greyson wasn’t so sure.

  But in that moment, a low, dark gray shadow slunk past the garret’s half-opened door. He blinked, sure he’d been mistaken. But then the tappity-tap of dog claws on wood echoed from the stairwell.

  “I’ll be damned!” Greyson grabbed Ophelia’s hand and pulled her with him from the room. “That’s Jericho.”

  “I know.” She didn’t sound surprised.

  Greyson glanced at her as they hurried along the corridor. She didn’t look surprised either.

  “How did you know?” He peered at her again when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “He was sitting in the doorway the whole time we spoke.” She tugged on his hand, taking him with her down the steps. “I told you that I sometimes see ghosts.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Greyson said again, not wanting to ruin the moment by asking why she hadn’t told him straightaway.

  He had, after all, kept a secret from her.

  But when they reached the landing where the ghost dog’s footsteps had ended, Jericho wasn’t there. Nor was his master, though the air there was frosty. So cold Greyson wouldn’t have been surprised to see ice on the walls.

  “Well, sweet?” He turned to his bride. “Do you see old Jericho or Priddy?”

  She turned in a slow circle, her brow pleating as she looked about. “No, they aren’t here now. But they were, only moments ago. I can feel their lingering energy.”

  Greyson thought he felt it, too.

  Indeed, he was sure that he did.

  But his stomach also chose that moment to grumble and from far below came a whiff of frying onions and roasted beef, the faint clatter of pots and pans as Smithers prepared the evening meal.

  “Come, sweet…” He reached for his love’s hand, lacing their fingers. “Let’s take a before-dinner stroll along the Tullie path.”

  “I would like that,” she agreed.

  But when they started forward, she tripped, falling to her knees on the cold hard wood of the landing.

  “How clumsy of me,” she said, pushing to her feet, brushing at her skirts. “I tripped- … oh, look!” She pointed at the floor, a warped board that jutted up at an odd angle.

  Greyson dropped to a knee to peer at the board. He’d never noticed a bad one anywhere in the stairwell, certainly not here. But there could be no doubt – one was loose now.

  “I’ll fix it at once,” he said, standing.

  To his surprise, Ophelia knelt beside the floorboard, a smile spreading across her face.

  “I don’t think it needs fixing.” She leaned down to peer into the darkness beneath the plank. “There’s a space. Perhaps something Jericho wished us to find?”

  “I dinnae think so.” Greyson frowned.

  He could accept ghosts, the fey, and even enchanted shawls. But he drew the line at hidden treasure. Especially in the house of a recluse artist who’d died penniless.”

  His bride clearly believed otherwise and was already prying up the board. And then two others beside it, followed by two or three more. Old as they were, they came away easily. Before he could stop her, she flattened herself on the landing and thrust her arm into the space.

  “O-o-oh,” she cried, pulling up a long, string-tied roll of canvas. “Look what’s down there! Paintings and paintings, I’ll bet you. Arbuckle Priddy’s masterpieces, here beneath his landing all this time.”

  “Nae…” Greyson couldn’t believe it. The artist was known to have burned his paintings in the garden, just as Greyson’s own father had done.

  But he reached for the roll Ophelia still held and untied the aged bindings. His heart nearly stopped when he carefully opened the canvas, revealing indeed one of Priddy’s paintings – a self-portrait, of all things.

  And the artist appeared to scowl at them, perhaps annoyed that they’d needed so long to discover his legacy.

  “I’ll be damned,” Greyson said again, lowering himself to the floor beside his wife and thrusting his own arm into Priddy’s hiding place. “There must be hundreds of paintings in here.”

  “I think you are right,” Ophelia agreed. “A vast fortune, I’d imagine.”

  Greyson laughed. “You may be right. Indeed, I’m sure you are.”

  Pushing to her feet, she beamed down at him. “Just imagine, you can sell this crumbling old house and build a mansion on Union Street.”

  “I could, aye.” Greyson stood and pulled her into his arms. “But I’ll no’ be doing that.”

  “I know,” she said, her eyes shining. “You might sell one or two to cover repairs to our home. Otherwise, you’ll see all these framed and hung about the house in Arbuckle’s honor. And maybe you’ll donate some to museums.”

  Greyson nodded. “That will be the way of it, aye.”

  “Oh, it is much more than that.” She grabbed his face and kissed him. “It is exactly why I love you.”

  Actually, they loved each other.

  And they loved Gannet House and even their resident ghost who did eventually treat them to an appearance, or two. Jericho also returned, making his presence known with a howl or bark, the clicking of canine claws on the stairs. One could even say that the old house became a place of great happiness and that would remain so for many years and then some.

  A blessing secured because unbeknownst to Greyson and Ophelia at the time, life had one more secret to share…

  The many children who would soon grace their days with so much delight and laughter.

  Even now, those who see the world through their hearts can feel that joy. And each time such a soul walks by Gannet House, everyone who ever lived and loved there, smiles.

  Even a certain small red squirrel.

  For true love in all its beautiful forms is forever, and can never be dimmed.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  Thank you for reading The Kiss at Midnight. I hope you enjoyed the story. Before you close the book (aka scrolling away on your reading device), I’d like to add the following behind the scenes tidbits…

  It is my heartfelt wish to dedicate this story to ‘squirrels everywhere,’ words I prefer to place here, at the end of the tale rather than the beginning to avoid spoilers. Wiggle was inspired by my daily bike rides and walks. As a nature and animal lover, it saddens me when I spot a squirrel that did not make it across a road. It makes my heart hurt. On a happier note, the deck off my writing office is frequently visited by squirrels – they are safe when they come, no pesky cars in my garden. So one afternoon when I returned from a walk with a sad heart and then spotted another squirrel (a living one) on my deck just as I was about to begin this story…

  Well, in that moment, Wiggle was born. I wish all squirrels (indeed, all animals) could be so lucky. Imagine a place like Gannet House to call home. Greyson, Ophelia, and Smithers as their humans. That can’t be so, of course. But magic lives in words, so in the pages of this book, all squirrels are safe, happy, and loved.

  For the curious, Pumpkin (see dedication) could be Wiggle. Pumpkin is a rescue squirrel found by a friend’s cousin. Itty-bitty and injured, Pumpkin’s chances of recovery were slim – especially if left where he’d fallen. But Pumpkin was lucky – a great-hearted soul found him, giving him all the care and love that I know Greyson showered on Wiggle. Today, Pumpkin thrives, is the happiest-ever mite. Living proof that love works miracl
es.

  Seahorses. Everything that finds its way into a book is flotsam gathered from the writer’s soul. Bits and pieces taken from life experiences, that great store of day-to-day existence we all collect over time. I live on Florida’s Gulf coast and often walk the beach. The seahorse scene Ophelia describes happened to me and a very good friend. To this day, I have no idea why they washed ashore, but they did and in the hundreds.

  Horrified, my friend and I ran about, gathering the little creatures in our hands and carrying them back into the water. Again and again and again until we’d cleared the beach of all living seahorses. I hope they made it. I’ll never know. But I do know we did what we could. And so my memory became Ophelia’s seahorse magic.

  The only difference is that my friend is not of the fey. Nor has she ever given me a magical silver silk shawl. But, hey, she has gifted me with quite a few silk shawls in other shades, so who knows? Maybe she is a faery? She is certainly lovely and kind enough to be one.

  Mither Kirk. This spelling is not a typo. ‘Mither’ is the Scottish word for mother. Likewise, kirk is church.

  Kirk of St. Nicholas (aka Aberdeen’s Mither Kirk) and its St. Mary’s Chapel. This is a true place and can be visited by anyone touring Aberdeen. The referenced Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1597 is sadly also real. As I prefer to write light-hearted and humor-filled tales, I did not wish to delve too deeply into this slice of Aberdeen’s past. Anyone interested in the details of those days can learn more with a quick Google search.

  The Samhain Eve revels described could well have happened. Such All Hallows’ Eve celebrations were common, a reason I chose to use the night for Greyson and Ophelia to meet.

  The tale of the Samhain lovers is imagined, but could well have happened in a long ago, more romantic and danger fraught age. Scottish kirkyards were often scenes of illicit trysts. I witnessed one myself once, at Edinburgh’s famous Greyfriars Kirk.

  Kettle House is also fiction, though could well have existed. Flourmill Lane is real, as is the mentioned provost’s mansion not too far from the house. I had the very real Provost Ross’s House in mind when I placed such a mansion near the Russells’ home. Provost Ross’s House can be visited and was built in 1593, making it the second oldest house in Aberdeen. The building is in the care of the National Trust for Scotland.