Shades of Midnight

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Why not?” She placed her hands on her hips. This was, after all, her house. Lucien could not order her to bed as if she were a child up past her bedtime.

  “It’s late,” he said sensibly. “You’ve had too much to drink. There’s nothing we can do tonight but make suppositions about what happened thirty years ago.”

  “But…”

  “And if you stand here any longer, looking like this and talking about love, I will kiss you. And if I kiss you now, stopping will be a problem.”

  “Oh.” That didn’t sound like such a bad idea. It was certainly no reason to run and hide.

  “And if I kiss you, and I keep kissing you, I will very likely end up breaking my first vow to a fellow member of the Plummerville Ghost Society.” He smiled sheepishly at his own joke. “So get to bed.”

  Eve turned and climbed the stairs, a smile on her face, a certain thud to her heart. If she thought Lucien would stay, if she thought this flirtation of his meant anything to him, she’d stand her ground and make him kiss her. She’d be bold. She wouldn’t let him go until morning.

  When she reached the top of the stairs she turned and said good night. When her back was to Lucien once again, she whispered, “I have never loved anyone but you.”

  *

  At least this time she knew, from the moment Viola appeared, that this was a dream. In her unstained and unwrinkled wrapper, Viola gave Eve her recipe for apple butter.

  They even made a batch, standing over the stove in their wrappers and talking about ordinary things. The weather. The garden. Peach preserves and apple butter and strawberry jam.

  Finally Viola smiled and said, “That man… He loves you, you know.”

  “Lucien?”

  “Of course, Lucien!” Viola laughed. It was nice to hear that sound, so real and warm. The spirit’s smile faded, but did not die. “I like him. His presence makes us stronger. We are drawn to him, and he gives us… energy. Vitality. He is a powerful man.”

  “A powerful man who loves his work more than he loves me.”

  “No,” Viola argued. “He is consumed by his work, at times, but he is more consumed by you. Deep down, in the heart, in the soul, you are what he craves most.”

  Eve snorted as she stirred the mixture in her pot. She couldn’t ever remember smelling something so delicious in a dream! “Apparently I’m not the only woman he’s been consumed by. He’s fallen in love before, and he’ll fall in love again.”

  Viola waved a dismissive hand. “She was nothing. An infatuation, not a true love.”

  Eve dropped her spoon. “You know who she is?”

  Viola smiled. “She is not important.”

  Eve tried to make herself remember that while this was a dream, Viola was very real. She needed to quit worrying about Lucien, and concentrate on the mystery at hand. “Were you ever in love, before you met Alistair?”

  The ghost’s smile faded. “Why do you ask such a question?”

  Eve shrugged and retrieved her spoon. “Lucien and I were talking earlier, about how it’s possible for a person to love more than once. Maybe.”

  “There are many kinds of love,” Viola said softly.

  “Of course, but I’m talking about the love between a man and a woman. Romantic love.”

  Viola didn’t answer.

  “I’ve never loved anyone but Lucien, but it seems that maybe…” Eve turned around, only to see that Viola was gone.

  And then Alistair tapped her on the shoulder.

  “What color corset are you wearing today, darlin’?” he asked, his drawl deeply southern. “Yellow is very nice, but I do love strawberries.”

  Eve screamed… and shot upright in bed, coming awake instantly.

  The door flew open and she almost screamed again, but it was a tousled and wrinkled Lucien who stood there, his jacket discarded, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just a dream,” Eve said breathlessly as she tried to make her heart rate slow down.

  “Viola?”

  She nodded, then shot from the bed. Without taking time to grab her wrapper, she went to her dresser and grabbed paper and pen from the top drawer. Then she lit a lamp and began to scribble.

  “What are you doing?” Lucien didn’t leave the doorway.

  “Writing this down before I forget.”

  He took a single step into the room. “Did Viola tell you anything of importance?”

  “Yes,” Eve said as she continued to write. “She gave me her recipe for apple butter.”

  “Apple butter.” Lucien snorted in disgust and left, closing the door behind him. Eve continued to write everything she remembered, finally setting the complete recipe aside.

  Her heart was pounding too hard for her to go directly back to bed, so she paced for a while and recalled the dream. She hadn’t learned anything of value, except the recipe and the fact that Alistair was a thoughtless cad! What a shameless tease he was. What a scoundrel! How could Viola love him so much? It didn’t make sense.

  A new thought stopped her in her tracks. How had Lucien gotten to her room so quickly? She hadn’t heard him on the stairs, and it seemed that he’d arrived on the tail end of her short scream.

  Moving quietly she crossed the room, laid her hand on the doorknob, and opened the door a crack.

  Lucien slept on the floor outside her door, no pillow beneath his head, the too-short afghan from the parlor thrown over his long body. How could she ever be angry with him again? He guarded her, as best he could, placing himself between her and anyone who might come up the stairs. Anyone living, at least.

  She took the extra blanket from the end of her bed, and grabbed one of her pillows. Kneeling beside him, she slipped the pillow beneath his head. He stirred a little but didn’t wake. When he’d settled down completely once again, she covered him properly with the blanket.

  Lucien was determined to protect her, to keep his word to Buster, and to send Viola and Alistair on. Noble pursuits, each and every one.

  On her knees beside him, she straightened the blanket over his shoulder and leaned down to kiss his cheek. He stirred just a little, wrinkling his nose.

  Did he really love her as much as Viola said, maybe even as much as she loved him? Deep, she’d said. In the heart and soul. Or was that part of the dream her own wishful imagination kicking in? Was that assurance of love only what she wanted to hear?

  In an instant Eve came to the conclusion that it didn’t really matter. She loved Lucien so much that if he let her, she’d follow him to the ends of the earth. It was humiliating, to feel that way about a man who would forget his own wedding day, but there it was. She loved him. She didn’t want to live the rest of her life without him. Her pride wouldn’t keep her warm, it wouldn’t protect her against the night.

  It made perfect sense, in the predawn hours. Would she feel the same way by the bright light of day?

  Chapter 15

  Eve was surprised by the early morning knock on the front door, and she hurried to answer. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, and Lucien had probably gotten even less.

  She had expected to have to step over him as she left her room just past dawn, but he hadn’t been there. She’d found him in the parlor, asleep in the chair with a partially assembled specter-o-meter at his feet. He’d left his post early, perhaps hoping not to be caught being gallant. No matter what time he’d moved to the parlor, his night had not been a restful one and he didn’t need some unexpected visitor disturbing what little bit of sleep he could find.

  Last night when Viola had died, Lucien had held her in his strong, tender arms, and then a short time later he’d placed himself by her door to guard her. He had protected her in every way. He had been there for her, in a way she had never expected when she’d sent for him.

  As she’d tossed and turned, after finding Lucien on the floor in the hallway, she’d been forced to ask herself: if Viola could forgive the man she loved for murdering her, should she forgive Lucien for being so damne
d forgetful? There would never be another man for her, she knew it. No matter how diligently she wished for a normal man and an ordinary life… deep inside she knew no one but Lucien would do.

  Eve was surprised to find Gerald on her doorstep. She wasn’t expecting a delivery from the general store or any other Plummerville business, and while the man offered his varied services to all the homeowners in town, she’d had no need of his handyman skills and had told him so, in the nicest way, of course. She preferred doing whatever she could on her own—those household chores, headaches large and small, made the house more wholly her home.

  “Miss Abernathy,” Gerald said, removing his hat and clasping it before him with both hands. “I hope it’s not too early to stop by.”

  “Not at all,” she said, her voice low so as not to disturb Lucien.

  He looked her up and down, bushy eyebrows rising, pale blue eyes positively twinkling. “My, don’t you look pretty today.”

  She might have been offended that he sounded so surprised, but she decided to let that pass. This morning she had chosen her clothing with Lucien in mind. Her white blouse was finely made and touched with lace, and the full skirt was a lovely shade of green that complimented her coloring. The skirt was simply cut, but it wasn’t drab in color, and the blouse fit nicely and had that bit of fine lace. Perhaps it wasn’t as daring as what she usually wore against her skin, but it wasn’t plain, either. She’d taken special care with her hair, twisting it into a softer style than usual. A few curls brushed against her cheeks.

  Yes, she had actually tried to make herself attractive for Lucien, so she responded with a demure thank-you and ignored Gerald’s unflattering surprise at finding her pretty.

  “I was passing by on my way back to town,” he said, finally getting to the reason for his visit, “after making a delivery out to the Potters’, and it occurred to me that since you’re new in town you might not be aware of tomorrow’s activities.”

  “Activities?”

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween, you know,” he said with a quick grin.

  “Yes, I know.” Halloween, and the anniversary of Viola’s death. The date had not slipped her mind, but the Plummerville festivities had.

  “Since the holiday falls on a Saturday this year,” Gerald continued, “the ladies and the merchants in town have planned all sorts of celebrations. There’ll be food and games, and come nightfall folks will take turns telling ghost stories.” He leaned in just slightly. “The preacher don’t much like the ghost story part, but last year Mrs. Younger told him if he didn’t like it he could just go on to bed early and miss all the fun.” He cut his eyes this way and that. “That’s his mother Mrs. Younger, not his wife Mrs. Younger.”

  “I see.” She smiled. He seemed so delighted by the plans. “Actually, my friend Daisy informed me weeks ago of your annual celebration and the fact that this year would be especially grand. It was very sweet of you to stop by with this reminder, though. Very thoughtful.”

  “So, you’ll be there?” he pressed.

  “Probably not,” Eve admitted. “I must admit, Halloween is not my favorite of holidays.”

  That explanation should be enough, but Gerald did not move on. Good manners dictated that she invite him in, but since they’d have to walk right past the parlor, where Lucien slept, she didn’t think that was a good idea.

  Gerald stood on the front porch and shuffled his feet, which made Eve wonder if he didn’t have another purpose for his visit. “I understand you have a couple of ghosts of your own,” he said, glancing past her shoulder as if he might see something interesting in the foyer behind her. Not at this time of day… “I thought you said you hadn’t seen any shades, but I heard talk in town suggesting otherwise.”

  Word was out, thanks to Mrs. Markham and Douglas Hunt. And Lucien. And perhaps Reverend Younger.

  “There have been a few ghostly knockings, I must admit.”

  He gave her an obvious mock expression of terror, and she laughed lightly.

  “I coulda sworn you told me you hadn’t seen no ghosts.”

  “I just didn’t want to stir up a lot of talk over something so… trivial,” she explained, glad that honest Lucien wasn’t here to contradict her.

  “Trivial?”

  “A few unexplained rattlings,” Eve said with a wave of her hand. “Perhaps a distant moan in the early morning hours. Not much to tell, to be honest.”

  “Maybe you’ll have your own ghost story to tell tomorrow night,” Gerald teased.

  “I doubt it.” No matter how pleasant the Halloween festivities might be, Eve knew she’d be right here trying to find a way to save Viola. She didn’t care as much about the house she had come to love, anymore, or the town, or the neighbors, or what anyone thought of her. She cared, most of all, about Viola. Another year could not pass before Viola was led to the other side.

  Behind her, a rough voice murmured, “Morning.”

  Eve turned to see Lucien stumble through the foyer, his feet bare, his hair mussed, his shirt and trousers wrinkled. He was obviously just awakened and making his way to the kitchen. While Gerald watched. Well, so much for her reputation and her chance for a normal man and a ordinary life here in Plummerville. Funny, but she wasn’t at all disappointed.

  Gerald didn’t look shocked or dismayed to discover a man in her home. “Is that your fortuneteller?” he asked, his voice lowered in case Lucien should be listening from the kitchen, she supposed.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Yes, it is.”

  *

  If Eve was correct and after tomorrow the ghosts of Alistair and Viola became harder to see and hear, then today and tomorrow—which would be the thirtieth anniversary of their deaths—was the time to solve this mystery and send them on.

  Lucien tinkered with his newly repaired specter-o-meter for a while, there on the parlor floor. He’d been at it all morning, with little success. He needed new parts, and in his rush to pack he had… forgotten to pack spare parts. He finally gave up and pushed the device aside, standing and stretching his limbs—limbs that had not yet forgiven him for sleeping on the floor once again, and then finishing the evening in a chair.

  His mind going this way and that, he sat on the sofa where the ghostly lovers apparently began their amorous evening. He had no qualms about sitting here, knowing what had gone on. After just a few days with Alistair and his wife, Lucien felt certain there was not a piece of furniture in the house that could be considered safe.

  Besides, he had kissed Evie here, he had touched her, and that memory was more tangible, more important, than the past history of this house and the people who had once lived in it. She was real and alive, and he wanted the chance for the two of them to make their own memories.

  He had to talk to Alistair again, without Eve’s interference this time. When she walked into a room both of them—Alistair and Lucien himself—were distracted by her presence. It was more than the worry that Alistair was much too intrigued by Evie that made Lucien determined to get her out of the room. If he were to talk to the spirit man to man, so to speak, she could not be present. It had to be just the two of them.

  Lucien glanced to the desk where Eve sat, furiously scribbling notes that would one day appear in a book or a newspaper article. She had no uncommon gifts or skills in communicating with the dead, but she believed in what she could see and what she could not see, and she had a clear, unbiased eye and a way with words that made the telling of her tales fascinating. Writing about gardens would be a waste of her talent. Thank goodness she had realized that, and was now compiling notes for an article, and perhaps a chapter of a new book, on Alistair and Viola.

  She’d begun documenting what she saw early in her life, as her father dragged her from one medium to another, from one mystic to another, from one haunted house to the next, always looking for answers. Even after her father’s death she’d maintained her interest in the paranormal. Eve did not search for answers, as her father had, but shared what she saw in a sp
arkling and yet down-to-earth way. That was her gift.

  Viola had entered Eve, for a short period of time, and had twice visited her dreams. Had being around him and the others for all those years, seeing more of the psychical world than most would ever see, opened a portal that allowed Viola to speak to Eve freely? Or was it Eve’s growing love and concern for the murdered woman that made her vulnerable? That connection might be the key to solving this mystery. In the end it could be Eve, as much as him, to send the spirits on.

  Eve had worn green today to vex him, he was almost certain. She surely knew that the color brought out the green in her eyes, just as she surely knew he was fascinated with her eyes. Instead of a dress that was ugly and dull and cumbersome, she’d chosen something bright and lacy, a blouse and skirt that showed off her figure to its best advantage.

  Was it a coincidence that at a time when he needed least to be distracted, she had dressed in something frillier than usual, something much more feminine and alluring than her usual daytime attire? No, she was purposely trying to agitate him.

  She had been vexing in the brown monstrosity. More than vexing in her wedding dress and red petticoat. Right now, he did not need to be vexed.

  “Evie,” he said softly.

  “Yes.” Her voice was welcoming, friendly, but she did not lift her head from her work.

  “I’m starving.”

  She lifted her head; her eyes went wide. “You are?”

  “Famished. Those biscuits you made for breakfast were wonderful. Could you make more for lunch?”

  She smiled. “Of course. It will take a while,” she said, setting her pen aside.

  Lucien didn’t know why Eve loved to feed him, but she did. He hated to use that peculiar weakness against her, but he knew she would never allow him to channel Alistair alone, and he also knew he could not discover what had happened that night thirty years ago if Eve was present and he and Alistair both wanted to savor her wonderful warmth.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “They really were remarkable biscuits.”

  “I’d be happy to make more.” She moved her papers aside and stood, and the expression on her face was… what was that? Pleased. Expectant, perhaps.