Shades of Midnight

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Viola,” he whispered.

  She joined him on the bed, hovering above and all around him. He saw her, in a glimmer of light and a shift of the air. For a moment, a split second, it was as if he truly saw her, then she was a vague light once again.

  “Alistair.” The single word drifted to him, almost out of reach but much clearer than before.

  “Is he here, also?” Lucien didn’t see Viola’s husband, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t present.

  A hand appeared for a moment and reached for him, before dissolving. “Yes, you are here.”

  “No,” Lucien said, realizing the spirit’s mistake. She was confusing the living with the dead. She was confusing him with her husband. “I am not…”

  He felt her chilly hands on his neck, hands he could no longer see but which he felt quite well. Those hands drifted lower, caressing his chest again. Fingers fluttered. She was alternately bold and afraid.

  “Why?” she asked, her voice heartbreakingly sad. “I loved you. Why?” Her hands moved lower. “Do you only love me for my body? Does my heart mean nothing to you? I gave you my heart, Alistair.”

  Lucien had been talking to spirits all his life, but only once before had he communicated with a ghost who actually formed a voice others could hear, as Viola and Alistair did. They were strong spirits, capable of almost anything. That kind of power could be very dangerous, though at the moment Viola didn’t seem at all frightening. She was lonely, and very confused. She continued to caress him, easy one moment and then so boldly he felt the touch to his very bones.

  “Viola, you must listen to me,” Lucien said sternly. “I am not Alistair. My name is Lucien, and I am here to guide you home.”

  She would not be so easily dissuaded. And her hands were maddeningly cold and moving ever lower. “I am home,” a disembodied voice whispered. Icy fingers brushed against his lower belly, delved beneath the sheet and took hold…

  “Viola!” he shouted, shocked by her touch and the unbearable iciness of her fingers on his privates.

  She released him and faded away, slowly, surely, and one last time he heard her wail, “Why?”

  The door to the room flew open and Eve rushed in. She tripped over the throw rug by the door, stumbled across the room with arms flailing as she attempted to right herself, and fell onto the bed. Her momentum carried her squarely across Lucien’s torso and knocked him flat.

  Embarrassed and flustered, Eve blushed a pretty pink. Dressed primly in matronly brown, her hair tightly restrained but for a few errant curls, she was the picture of propriety—except that she now found herself lying crosswise over a naked man. She tried to find a safe space to look and could not. Apparently she had forgotten all about the spiderweb in the far corner, as her gaze landed on his legs, his chest, his face. She jerked her head to the side in an effort to find a prudent place to look, and found their reflection in the mirror mounted above a walnut dresser on the opposite wall. His eyes met hers in the reflection, and her lovely face turned even pinker than before.

  Her skirt was tangled around her legs, one of her combs had come loose and a few curls brushed her cheek. Lucien squelched the urge to reach out and brush that hair away from her face, to put both arms around her and hold her in place.

  He did nothing. He knew full well that his assistance was not wanted, at the moment. Not the kind of assistance he wished to offer, in any case. As a flustered Eve struggled to get off him, her delicate hand accidentally landed where it had never been before.

  Unlike Viola, Eve was wonderfully, arousingly warm.

  If Eve hadn’t been wearing a corset, she might have been able to scoot off the bed quickly. But she was so tightly bound she could probably barely breathe, much less move quickly. Lucien placed the flat of his palm against her back, as her hand very quickly moved down and away. Her fingers brushed against his thigh, and again her hand made a quick twist of attempted escape. Her body was crushed to his, but she definitely did not want to touch him.

  In the past they had kissed, nothing more. Stolen kisses, full of promise and light. Their engagement had been short, less than three months, and his work had taken him away from her for weeks. A full month, once. At the time, waiting for the wedding night to take Eve into his bed had seemed like the honorable thing to do.

  Now he wished they had not waited. He was afraid he would never know what it was like to lie in bed with the woman he loved beneath him. He wanted to know what Eve looked like with her hair down and those prim clothes of hers tossed aside. He wanted her naked beneath him, atop him, all around. He wanted to make love to her, to hold her, to sleep with her. If she truly didn’t love him anymore, none of that would ever happen. This awkward moment would be the only time he’d ever have Eve in his bed.

  He could probably help her up, but he didn’t. She’d likely just slap his hand if he tried to assist her in any way. Truth be told, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. If he had his way, he’d never let her go.

  “Why are you here, Evie?” he asked, his voice low.

  With one knee on the edge of the mattress, she was finally able to gain some control and lift her body off his. Immediately, he missed the weight and warmth of her.

  “I heard you shout,” she said.

  Lucien smiled. “And you were worried? You rushed up here to save me from Viola?”

  Her lips pursed as she very cautiously scooted to the side. “Of course not. I was simply curious. I didn’t think Viola and Alistair were about during the day.”

  “Oh, they’re about,” Lucien said absently. “At least, Viola is.”

  Eve sat on the side of the bed, catching her breath and placing a slightly trembling hand to her mussed hair. Her face was still flushed, and while he could not hear it, he was quite sure her heart pounded hard and fast.

  Two years was too long. “Evie,” he said softly, “I’ve missed you.”

  He would have thought her completely unaffected by his confession, if her lower lip didn’t tremble. “You should have thought of that before you left me waiting…”

  “I made a mistake,” he interrupted. “I forgot the date. I never forgot you.” He reached out and gently grasped her wrist. “Never.”

  Eve left the bed quickly, snatching her arm away and heading for the door without glancing back. “Don’t you have a nightshirt?” she asked, completely ignoring his heartfelt declaration. “A decent man would wear a nightshirt to bed.”

  “Of course I have a nightshirt,” he said, angry and embarrassed and… lost. “I just forgot to pack it.”

  “Of course you did,” Eve muttered as she rushed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.

  Lucien sighed deeply. “But I never forgot you.” Damn.

  Chapter 4

  Justina Markham arrived shortly after the noon hour, and about ten minutes after Eve had impatiently decided she wasn’t coming at all. Mrs. Markham knocked softly, and when Eve threw open the front door, the woman seemed almost surprised, as if she had expected that no one would be at home to receive her even though she’d been invited.

  For an older woman, Justina Markham was quite handsome. Her smooth, thick hair was more black than white, and the wrinkles on her heart-shaped face were not deep or many. She still had a fine figure, one which was shown off well in her widow’s black. She was fifty-three years old, and she had been Viola Stamper’s dearest friend.

  “I haven’t been to this door in thirty years,” she said softly, glancing inside and showing no intention of crossing the threshold.

  Eve was grateful to have a subject to turn her attentions to, after the disastrous events of less than an hour ago. She certainly didn’t need to dwell any longer on how exciting it had been to lie against Lucien, even for such a brief and bothersome period of time. She needed to forget how hard and warm he’d been, how she’d wanted so badly to stay there in his arms.

  How silly she’d been to go rushing into the room. For a few horrifying minutes, she’d actually thought he might be in dange
r. Ha.

  She’d much rather think about Mrs. Markham, and what the woman might tell her about Viola.

  “If you find entering the house too upsetting, we can walk around to the garden while we have our conversation,” Eve suggested. “Let me grab my shawl…”

  “No.” Mrs. Markham stepped inside tentatively, her eyes immediately going to the foot of the stairs. “Perhaps I need to do this.” She walked to the center of the foyer, and clasped her hands as she stared down at the spot where Viola died each and every night. “It was horrible,” she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “I’m sure it must have been,” Eve said gently.

  “Viola was a sweet, beautiful woman. She deserved better than to be stabbed in the back by the man she loved. She deserved better than to be left completely unclothed in a pool of her own blood.” The woman shook off her sorrow and became angry. “I came here that morning because Viola was going to teach me to make apple butter. Apple butter! How does the woman who makes the best apple butter in the county end up murdered?” Justina Markham drew a handy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I know it’s difficult,” Eve said. “But I need to know exactly what you remember about that morning.”

  “Why?” Justina’s eyes quickly went from sad to angry. “Why are you digging all this up now? Viola and Alistair are dead. They’ve been dead for thirty years.” She paled visibly. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that their ghosts haunt this house.” She sniffled. “What rubbish.”

  Mrs. Markham might say the rumors of this house’s haunting was rubbish, but the obvious fear on her face spoke differently. She glanced about the room, as if searching for a ghostly visitor.

  Until now, Eve had roundly dismissed any suggestion from Plummerville residents that her house was visited by spirits. She smiled, she laughed, she brushed off the notion and changed the subject, so that she would have the privacy to do what had to be done, here.

  While she was momentarily tempted to tell Justina Markham everything she’d seen and heard since moving into this cottage, she quickly decided she wasn’t yet ready to take that step. “I’m sure you’re right, but the stories do abound. What I’ve heard about the Stampers and the supposed ghostly appearances have made me curious, and I thought I might ask around and see what I could discover about the history of this house.”

  Mrs. Markham laid her dark eyes on Eve. “I am here, torturing myself with painful memories from long past, because you’re curious?” The woman’s coolness was well practiced and daunting, but it was not going to stop Eve from proceeding.

  “I want to know what happened in my house,” Eve explained. “Do you know, perhaps, who Viola was”—oh, there was no delicate way of putting this—“dallying with?”

  Mrs. Markham’s lips and eyes went hard, and Eve decided this was not a woman one would want as an enemy. There was fire in Justina Markham’s eyes. “I have heard those ridiculous rumors,” she said frostily. “Viola adored Alistair. They had a happy marriage. She would never have betrayed him by so much as looking at another man.”

  “I heard that perhaps the Reverend Younger…”

  “No,” Mrs. Markham interrupted sharply. “Viola was a fine woman. She did not dally with the preacher or anyone else.”

  “Then why did Alistair kill her?”

  Mrs. Markham looked at the foot of the stairs again, remembering. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But he did. I found them… Viola unclothed with those awful wounds in her back, Alistair lying over her, the knife in his hand and two stab wounds in his chest.”

  Eve puzzled over the picture Mrs. Markham painted. “Was Alistair also unclothed?”

  “He wore a dressing gown.”

  “Viola was wearing a wrapper, wasn’t she?”

  Mrs. Markham shook her head. “No.”

  “Then it was lying close by,” Eve prodded.

  Again, Mrs. Markham shook her head.

  She had seen Viola come down the stairs in that wrapper every night for a month. “Well,” she muttered, “where did it go?”

  Mrs. Markham glared at Eve. “What a strange question to ask. How am I to know where Viola’s robe was? I imagine it was… in her bedchamber or perhaps packed away in her dresser.”

  It hadn’t been, but there was no way to reveal that without telling Mrs. Markham exactly what she’d seen since coming here. “It just seems odd, that’s all.” Time to take another line of questioning. “What about Mr. Markham? Did he know Alistair? Were the four of you friends?”

  Mrs. Markham turned her head away. “I wasn’t married, at that time,” she said. After a moment of silence she turned her head to look at Eve with questioning eyes.

  “Alistair was not a perfect husband, as I’m sure you have discovered. He worked long hours, he was demanding and jealous and there might have been days when Viola regretted marrying him. But she was a decent person. She would never have committed adultery.” Justina sounded defensive, as a good friend might.

  “Then why did he kill her?” Eve asked for the second time.

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Markham was unable to hide her frustration as she answered the question once again. “Miss Abernathy,” she said softly, “what do you want from me? Exactly why am I here?”

  “You were Viola Stamper’s dearest friend,” Eve said gently. “When I invited you here and you agreed to speak with me, I did think that you might at the very least suspect that I wanted to ask questions about unfortunate past events. I truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Again, Mrs. Markham let her eyes roam. Was she looking for ghosts? Or remembering days long gone?

  “Perhaps we can sit in the parlor for a while,” Eve suggested, indicating the room with a hand. “I’ll make us a pot of tea and we can talk about anything you’d like.” She was disappointed not to learn more new and exciting details from Viola’s friend, but she wouldn’t harangue the woman. The fact that Viola had been found naked was puzzle enough, for now. Was that a fact, or had the years twisted the memory for Mrs. Markham? That didn’t seem like a detail one would forget, no matter how much time had passed.

  “No, thank you,” the older woman said. “I really can’t stay long. There’s so much to do at home, after my extended visit to Alabama.”

  “Of course.”

  In spite of her words, Mrs. Markham didn’t make a move to leave. “I apologize for snapping at you, Miss Abernathy. You invited me here, but you certainly didn’t force me to stop by. I think of Viola and Alistair often,” she admitted. “Too often, to be honest. Some days, at the oddest moments, they just pop into my mind. Sometimes as I remember them from happier days, sometimes… the way I found them. Perhaps I thought a visit to this house would help to rid me of my own ghosts.”

  “I understand.”

  Eve found a spark of hope, where a moment earlier there had been none. Now that some of the tension had faded and Justina Markham had admitted that she did think often of the Stampers and their terrible end, perhaps she could learn something new. A forgotten tidbit, a well-kept secret. There were things Eve did not yet know about the Stampers. Many things.

  Lucien, blast his hide, came waltzing down the stairs as if he lived here. Neatly dressed in a black suit and white shirt, hair combed, a smile on his handsome face, you would never know that an hour ago he had encountered a ghost while lying naked in his bed. Her bed, she amended. This was not his house, and nothing in it belonged to him. Especially not her.

  “You must be Mrs. Markham,” Lucien said brightly.

  “Yes,” she said, taken aback by his sudden appearance. “Good heavens,” she muttered, shaking off her obvious surprise. “You gave me a bit of a start. You look very much like Alistair. Same hair and height, same… nose, I believe.”

  “I’m Lucien Thorpe,” he said, extending his hand as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “The medium,” a delighted Justina said as the two of them shook hands as if they were conducting a business
deal. “I’ve heard about you. I believe I read an article in the Savannah newspaper a few years back. Something about a hidden box of jewels and the ghost of the woman who had hidden them from her sister. Fascinating reading.”

  Lucien’s smile faded. He positively hated being called a medium! He said the designation lumped him in with tricksters and overly sensitive women who wailed and spoke nonsense and called it a power. He didn’t care much for being recognized, either. He considered his work and unusual gifts unworthy of the attention he sometimes received. Most of all, it just annoyed him.

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m a scientist specializing in studies of the spiritual world.”

  “He’s an exorcist, too,” Eve added spitefully, knowing how much he hated that label.

  Lucien cast a quick, cutting glance Eve’s way. “I do occasionally assist unhappy spirits in finding their way to the next plane, but that hardly makes me an exorcist.”

  Mrs. Markham looked puzzled. “Mr. Thorpe, what are you doing here in Plummerville?” After a moment’s consideration, her eyes widened and her face paled. “Dear God, the stories must be true. Viola and Alistair haunt this house!”

  “Well…” Eve began, as she tried to quickly formulate a reasoning for Lucien’s presence that wouldn’t give away her secret.

  “Oh yes,” he said brightly. “They’re definitely in residence.”

  After a moment of silence, Mrs. Markham fainted. Lucien, sometimes alert and occasionally handy to have around, caught her.

  *

  Mrs. Markham came to after a few moments, found her own two feet, and bid Eve a hasty and garbled farewell. After extricating herself from Lucien’s grasp, she all but ran for her horse and buggy, skirt in hand and eyes unerringly ahead.

  Lucien sighed. For some reason, Eve was angry with him. Again.

  “Why did you tell her Viola and Alistair haunt this house?” Eve asked sharply.

  Looking out the parlor window, Lucien kept his eyes on Mrs. Markham’s retreating buggy. “Because it’s the truth. If you wanted to lie and tell her otherwise, you should have informed me of your ruse.”