Spirits of the Season: Eight Haunting Holiday Romances Page 5

  “I suppose it is too much to expect you to own up to having spread such nasty remarks about me. Saying that I had a dubious background and a tarnished character, and that marrying me would bring infamy to the family name.” Clicking my tongue to Pomona, I made to start back the way I had come, but Sir James leaned over and seized the reins, forcing me to a halt.

  “Miss Reginald, that is a false charge. I never said such a thing.”

  Glaring at him, I tugged unavailingly at the reins in an effort to break his hold. “I have it on good authority that you did.”

  His eyes flashed impatiently. “Do not lay that at my doorstep. I am better bred than to bandy a lady’s name, however mean you may believe my stature to be.”

  That struck home, and I dropped my eyes. “I am sorry for what I said about you,” I mumbled. “But you must understand that I was greatly provoked, having been told what you were saying about me.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Why, by Amelia.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the full extent of my stupidity was clear to me. How could I have trusted that sly baggage to tell the truth? I groaned aloud, and Sir James gave a wry half smile.

  “It appears that you received inaccurate information,” he said. “Perhaps Miss Tregonne misunderstood.” This was as close as a gentleman could come to saying She lied, but I knew that he saw the way things really were. He continued, “I believe I did say something about needing to exercise care in the choice of a wife, but that is plain good sense, especially for…”

  “Especially for a baronet with philanthropic ambitions who will need a helpmeet who shares his enthusiasms—a wife who is more interested in helping him improve the lot of his tenants than in being seen at the opera with fashionable people.”

  His smile this time was sincere, and together with the warmth in his vivid blue eyes, it quite took my breath away. “Just so,” he said, and the approbation in his voice made my cheeks warm. “If I were to marry someone who lived entirely for social success in fashionable circles, it would be unfair to both of us.”

  The words both of us were still hanging in the air between us like puffs of smoke when I caught sight of the other mounted gentlemen approaching, with the sleighs just coming into view behind. My disappointment was tempered with relief, for as wonderful as it had been to have this opportunity to speak to Sir James alone, every moment we spent together unchaperoned put my reputation at further risk.

  As if the same thought had occurred to him, he released my reins—but then he extended his gloved hand toward me.

  “I am grateful we had the chance to clear the air,” he said. “Shall we shake hands and be friends again?”

  “Gladly,” I said, and placed my hand in his.

  Strangely, that seemed to create an awkwardness that had not existed a moment before. Sir James seemed uncertain what to say next. Apropos of nothing he commented, “That’s Lady Garnet’s brooch you’re wearing, isn’t it?”

  Surprised, I glanced down to find that the garnet brooch was indeed pinned to the lapel of my riding habit. Its sparkle was incongruous against the black broadcloth. “I don’t remember putting that on,” I said, perplexed.

  Then the rest of our company hallooed us, and I hesitated no longer before touching my whip to Pomona’s flank and setting out at a brisk jog to meet the approaching sleighs.

  Chapter 5

  After dinner, the servants put up the tree we had selected at one end of the gallery, and we gathered around to trim it while Cecilia Humphries played the pianoforte. Despite my ride earlier, I was still restless. I turned to the two footmen who stood by.

  “Roll up the rugs,” I commanded, “and push all the chairs back. I wish to dance!”

  Even mild Mr. Tregonne looked taken aback that I would order his servants about with such presumption. I was no less astonished. I had not intended to say that—had not even had such a thought in my head.

  Mrs. Tregonne gave a nervous titter. “Really, my dear Felicity, it would be better to wait until the ball tomorrow. This is scarcely the time—”

  “This is a perfect time!” I said. At least, it was my voice, so it had to be me speaking, but the words left my lips without my volition. I was still more baffled when I heard myself command Cecilia to play a minuet and my hand darted out to seize that of the young man next to me, who happened to be Theodore Gibb.

  “Dance with me,” I ordered him, and felt a cajoling smile curve my lips. “I feel as though I haven’t danced in a century!”

  The distant thought crossed my mind that I had said something like that earlier, but the memory was lost as Cecilia hesitantly struck up a Haydn tune. I drew Mr. Gibb away from the Christmas tree and into the stately dance.

  Once started, I could not seem to stop. When Cecilia tired of playing, I directed Mrs. Tregonne to play for us—my own hostess, and I was nearly as high-handed with her as with a servant! She did not seem to have the courage to refuse. Yet my body danced on, unhindered by pangs of conscience. If one of my partners tired, I appropriated another to take a turn with me. It was all easier than I would have expected, somehow; it seemed that I had broken through the invisible barrier and was one of the group. Or rather, for the moment, the leader, as I directed our accompanist in what to play and assigned all of the company partners for “Sir Roger de Coverley”… not quite all, though, for I did not see Sir James.

  The curious, even frightening thing was that I seemed to observe all of this from outside myself. The part of me that was not taking command, laughing, dancing as if she would never tire observed from a slight remove, agog at the way I was acting and speaking without thought, without intention—without a will of my own, it seemed. The onlooker Felicity marveled at the gay Felicity’s seemingly endless energy, her daring, her infectious high spirits. Some of the girls whispered behind their hands even as they moved through the figures with their partners, and I knew they were shocked by my boldness. They could have been no less shocked than I.

  Nor were we the only ones bemused by this transformation. Sir James reappeared and drew me aside at the end of one particularly boisterous tune.

  “If I can lure you away from the dancing, I should like to speak to you,” he said.

  “If you insist,” I said, fanning myself to cool my heated cheeks. I knew that my hair was coming out of its chignon again, and I could tell from the way his eyes lingered on me that the effect was not unflattering. “Would you not prefer to reserve the next waltz, though? As I recall, we used to dance quite well together.”

  “We did indeed,” he said quietly. “And on any other night I would not deny myself that pleasure. But I wish to speak with you about something more urgent.” Grasping me by the elbow, he led me to the far end of the gallery, where it was quiet and we could talk privately.

  I admit that I felt a flutter of excited anticipation at what he wished to say that required such seclusion. But instead of using the opportunity to woo me, he said softly, “I am very much afraid for you, Miss Reginald.”

  “Afraid?” I laughed. “Dancing shall not give me fits, Sir James, or send me into an apoplexy.”

  “That isn’t what I mean.” He glanced over toward the dancers to make certain they remained out of earshot. “I believe it was Lady Garnet’s ghost that we saw last night.”

  The more distant, watchful part of me felt a jolt when he gave a name to the unease that lurked at the back of my mind. Yet I heard myself give a careless laugh and say, “What an absurd old wives’ tale.”

  He did not take offense. “So I would have said just a week ago. But I believe the ghost exists, and I fear she is endangering you. Now, hear me out,” he added quickly, before I could protest. “What we saw was not natural. It alarmed me to the extent that I spoke to the housekeeper to find out what she could tell me about the ghost.”

  The mental picture of this distinguished man sitting down at the kitchen table for a gossip with the Tatham housekeeper made me want to laugh again. But his serious mien had
captured my interest. How very blue his eyes were when he was grave like this.

  “I told Mrs. Hobbs what we had seen,” he continued, “and she was quite concerned. She said she had heard it from her grandmother that the mirrors in Lady Garnet’s room weren’t covered soon enough after her death, so her soul was trapped in one. I think that is what we saw last night.” He took my hand in his as if to impress the gravity of his words upon me. “I believe she fastened onto you somehow, Felicity, and is gaining control of you. You are definitely not acting like yourself.”

  Being charming and vivacious was not alien to me, and I resented the implication. “What do you know of me, the true me?” I challenged him. “On the basis of so short an acquaintance, and an interrupted one at that, how much can you know of my character?”

  His voice was deep and solemn as a vow when he said, “I think I have come to know you rather well, despite our falling out. I know you are impulsive but sweet natured. That you have a tender heart despite being prone to speak without thinking. That you are forthright and courageous and intelligent.”

  This was what he thought of me, despite our misunderstanding and my display of childish temper? Now the Other that had spoken with my voice was silent, and the real me found no words with which to respond.

  “The woman I have seen glimpses of today is different,” he continued. “Dangerously reckless, for a start. Careless of the feelings of others. Presumptuous and self-willed, even arrogant. She is not the Felicity Reginald I have come to admire so deeply—a young lady who is above rubies.”

  Still I could not form a reply. Indeed, even had I thought of what to say, I had no breath to speak.

  Then he said in a different tone, “On the subject of jewels, do you realize you are wearing her brooch again?”

  Shocked, I stared down at my bodice. Sure enough, the garnets winked and glittered against the pink faille. A feeling of terrible dread began to form like ice in my breast.

  “I have been a bit confused this evening,” I admitted. “Perhaps I’m not quite myself…” Then I fell silent as the literal truth of that struck me.

  The idea was absurd on the face of it. But remembering the chilling smile of the specter in the mirror, I could not dismiss it. Sir James was right. Something more than normal—more than earthly—had happened to me, and was evidently still happening. I had to bite my lip to force down a sudden swell of panic.

  He squeezed my hand gently as if guessing the frightened direction of my thoughts. “There is one thing more,” he said, and his voice was strangely sorrowful.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  He leaned very close and said, “Your eyes have turned brown.”

  My hand flew to my lips to stifle a gasp. For a sickening moment I thought I would scream or faint, but the steady, comforting pressure of his hand on mine kept me from giving way to fear. I could not let panic control me. I had to think through this predicament, just as he had done.

  I asked in as brave a voice as I could manage, “Did Mrs. Hobbs have any idea how to—to be rid of the ghost?”

  Just as his hand clasping mine gave me courage, so did the even, soothing tone of his voice and the steady gaze of his kind blue eyes. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “But I have an idea. I’ve heard that physical objects that once belonged to restless spirits can open up a sort of channel to them. Perhaps Lady Garnet’s brooch is exerting an influence over you.”

  For a moment I was distracted by the realization of how peculiar a conversation this was. It was certainly the oddest exchange I had ever taken part in, and under other circumstances I would have found it amusing. “I had no idea you put any stock in such things,” I could not help saying.

  He permitted himself a half smile. “I never did until now,” he said.

  The seriousness of the situation impressed itself again upon me, and all impulse toward mirth fled. My fingers began to fumble at the catch. “Do you really think that if I take the brooch off I shall be restored to myself?”

  He must have given the matter thought already, for he shook his head unhesitatingly. “I don’t think that will be sufficient. I think it must be destroyed.”

  The voice of conscience pointed out that this ornament was a family heirloom and that we had no right to destroy it. But I made no protest when he took the brooch from me. Folding it inside his handkerchief, he cast a swift glance around to be certain we were unobserved. Then he placed the thing on the floor and brought his heel down on it, hard.

  Although I strained to sense any alteration, no perceptible change in me took place. “I don’t feel any different,” I admitted.

  “I’m going to take this to my room and throw it in the fire,” he told me, retrieving the handkerchief and its contents and placing them in his pocket. “Whatever fragments remain after that I’ll rake out and—and bury, perhaps.”

  “The ground is frozen,” I was forced to point out.

  “Then I’ll throw them into the brook.”

  “Likewise frozen, alas.”

  A swift, reckless smile came and went on his face. “Then I will steal the fastest horse from the stables and ride day and night until I reach the ocean, and there I will fling the last fragments of the brooch to be carried far away from you, and so free you from the specter’s grasp.”

  His resolve was dazzling, and for a moment I could only stand there wondering at him. This must be what it was like in the days of yore to have a knight-errant. I knew that despite the levity of his words he meant them. He would do everything in his power to free me. His whole character was laid open to me at that moment, and I knew that I could search my entire life and never find such a man again. This was the only man I could ever give my heart to.

  I wanted to tell him so, and for a moment the words hovered on my lips—but years of being schooled in propriety held them back. Instead I merely whispered, “Thank you,” and reached out to clasp his hand again.

  He took my hand in both of his as if he did not want to release it. “Believe me, I would go to far greater lengths to restore you to yourself,” he said solemnly. Then he bowed and left me.

  As I watched him striding out of the gallery with determination in the set of his broad shoulders, I wondered what would have happened if I had defied my upbringing and told him how I felt. But that was unthinkable for a self-respecting young lady. Besides, it was possible that what I wanted to believe was a particular consideration for me was simply the chivalry that he would have shown any young lady in such a plight.

  Any young lady…

  At that moment I realized that I had a responsibility of my own: to see that Lady Garnet’s hungry spirit could not batten onto another unlucky girl. While Sir James was burning the pieces of the brooch to cinders, I would destroy the mirror so that the specter would be unable to hide there anymore. Without a bolt-hole, perhaps the unhappy soul would even be forced to leave the mortal world and go to her rest. Whether that would be in heaven or some other spirit realm I had no idea—but I did know that Lady Garnet’s true home now was not among mortals, no matter how hard she strove to make it so.

  Like my gallant champion, I now had my own errand of destruction—and liberation.

  Chapter 6

  In no more time than it took me to fetch a light, I was entering again the corridor that led to Lady Garnet’s room.

  In my haste I did not stop to change out of my crinoline gown, and that was a mistake. Last night in the old sack-back gown, which I had worn without panniers, I had moved freely through the narrow passage, but the bell-shaped skirt of my evening dress required frequent extrication.

  When I reached Lady Garnet’s door I did not even hesitate to enter, so distracted was I with my sartorial difficulties—and so certain that James and I had already won. I swept into the moonlit chamber with complete confidence.

  This made it an even greater shock when the door slammed shut behind me.

  At once I realized my folly. Dropping my candle, which had blown out in the gust f
rom the door, I fell upon the door and pulled at the handle. It did not move in the slightest. I was no conqueror, I now saw, but a prisoner. Slumping against the door, I felt again the despair and futile rage of this room settle over me like a cloak of lead.

  I could not let it immobilize me. I forced myself to pick up the spindly chair that sat before the shrouded dressing table and approach the mirror. Without letting myself look at the reflection, I swung the chair at the glass with all my strength.

  It took four attempts before I heard the glass shatter. Dropping the chair, I took deep breaths until I had courage enough to peer into the broken mirror, where cracks spread like a spiderweb.

  Even in the wan light of the moon, I could see that my eyes had not resumed their normal state.

  Musical laughter sounded in my head, sending a chill over my skin, and I ran to the door and wrestled again with the handle. To no avail. “Sir James!” I shouted at the top of my voice, pounding my fists against the door. His room was close by, after all; perhaps I could make him hear. I ran to retrieve the chair and beat it against the door, but the flimsy thing, already weakened, broke at the second blow. Once more I hammered at the stubborn door with my fists and shouted again and again, until finally an answering voice came—the voice I most wanted to hear.

  “Felicity?” Although his voice was muffled through the door, it was James, and relief flooded my heart. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve broken the mirror, but the door won’t open. I’ve tried and tried—”

  There was a brief, active silence, then: “It won’t open for me either. I shall go fetch an axe.”

  “An axe!”

  “Mr. Tregonne can afford a new door, but you are not replaceable. Be brave, and I will be with you again as soon as I can.”

  His footsteps receded before I could protest that I was not worried about destroying still more of the Tregonne family’s property. Rather, I had a terrible conviction that I would not be able to leave this room until Lady Garnet permitted it.