Of Midnight Born (12 page)

“I no longer wish to speak with you,” she said, and then vanished.

Alex blinked, looking at where she had been. The sense of her presence was gone, as well. It was as if she had never been there at all: not even the bed curtains wavered at her passing.

He blew out his breath in a noisy, horse-blowing sound, and sank loosely into the pillows. He flopped his hand onto his forehead, holding it while he shook his head back and forth.

She looked like a ghost. She moved like a ghost. She talked like a woman Geoffrey Chaucer would have met on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. So was she a ghost? Or was he out of his mind?

He very well might be stark, raving mad. Crazier than a bedbug. ‘Round the bend. Crackers. He admittedly felt a few buttons short of fully dressed—but he was in bed, after all.

He gave a shout of incredulous laughter. The deuce of it all was that she had told him nothing that he could use to prove to himself they’d had their conversation. She had not told him where she was buried, and had revealed no secret passageways leading to long-forgotten dungeons. For all the information he had gleaned from her descriptions of being dead, he might as well have been talking to himself. “I do not know,” she had said. Again and again.

His heart had quit beating when she first spoke his name. It was a miracle that he’d survived the shock of it. Actually hearing a voice was a step beyond vague anxieties and seeing a figure in the corner of one’s eye.

He pulled his constraining nightshirt off over his head, flinging it to the foot of the bed. Whether she was real or not, she was gone. His bath had been particularly enjoyable, since he’d known there was no one spying upon him, although he would admit there was a very small, extremely vain part of him that had taken a certain pleasure in her interest.

On the other hand, sometimes a man wanted to scratch himself in ungentlemanly places.

If he was a lunatic, at least he seemed to have found a way to gain some control over his delusions. If he were being completely reasonable, he would do the wise thing and move to Bath with his sisters, and surround himself with the company of others with their feet firmly upon the ground of reality. He would watch stars from a town house rooftop, and for only a few hours of the night. He would go back to hands-on management of the mills, he would attend the rounds of house parties, he would seek out a wife and have children, and he would forget he had ever thought he had conversed with a beautiful ghost sitting at the foot of his bed.

He thought of the gruesome tale Serena had told of her brother’s demise, and of the Black Death. They were gruesome tales, yet fascinating.

He thought of Bath, and of the elegant assemblies his sisters adored. Elegant, and stupefying.

He grinned into the dark. He might be mad, but he was miles from being bored.

Now who was this arriving? Serena wondered, looking down on the courtyard from an upstairs window of the castle. It had been over a week since Woding had seen any visitors.

The rattling carriage drew to a halt; the door was opened and the step lowered. A man got out first, dressed in somber colors, then turned to give a hand to a woman. Her hat was bedecked in feathers and fake flowers, all flattening in the wind of the gusty, unseasonably drizzly day. A second woman climbed out after the first, dressed more simply, and then a third, this one wearing no hat at all. Her gown, even from such a distance, looked cheap, garish, and well-worn.

As the small group went inside, Serena left the window, heading for the main staircase. She had been avoiding Woding for the past few days, feeling as though she had presented herself as an utter idiot in their conversation, being either unable or unwilling to answer any of his questions to his satisfaction. She felt as well that she had revealed too much that was personal about herself, speaking of Thomas’s death as she had. Then his prodding for her to show herself—and her scarred face—had panicked her, and she had fled.

She had lost the knack of talking with another human being.

She had been practicing what she would say the next time, for she knew there had to be one. Her mind had been going nonstop, and she’d been mulling over every word they had exchanged, choosing words that would have been better, grimacing at those she had actually said. Their conversation,
even as poorly as it had gone, had been like the first bite of food taken after a day of fasting. She couldn’t stop now. She was only surprised she had not approached him again already.

The group of visitors had congregated at the foot of the stairs, in the entry hall between the library and the blue drawing room. Serena stopped at the landing halfway down the stairs, under the rose window. She could see now that the young woman in the feathered hat was Sophie, Woding’s younger sister—Serena remembered her from her first visit here, with Woding’s other sister, Philippa. She could only suppose that the man with her was her intended, the vicar. She had heard about him from the staff. He looked an earnest, fairly foolish young man, all long limbs and buggy eyes, obviously entranced by his dark-haired, dark-eyed fiancée.

She heard Woding coming along the upper hallway, and met his eyes as he stopped at the top of the staircase, noticing her presence. For a moment she had the sensation that he could see her much more clearly than he had let on, but she dismissed the idea. No one had been able to see her clearly without her either being in great distress or intending to be seen.

He nodded to her, then gave a slightly pained smile and looked over the rail at the group below. She didn’t know if the pain was for her or for them. Perhaps both, given his solitary ways.

“Alex!” Sophie cried, looking up and seeing him. She dashed to the bottom of the stairs, waiting as he came slowly down them.

Serena watched him as he reached his sister and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Sophie,” he said. “I hope your journey was pleasant.”

“I hardly noticed, I was so eager to get here. I wanted to come last week, as soon as I received Beth’s letter about your
ghost actually touching her, but Philippa would not allow it. She insisted I complete my dress fittings first. Dress fittings! When we have proof there are spirits abroad in your castle!”

Woding shook the man’s hand, calling him Mr. Blandamour, and greeted the older woman in plain dress, Miss Silverlock, whom Serena guessed must be a nurse or chaperon to young Sophie, who was continuing to talk. “Of course I knew there were ghosts here the moment I saw the place. There is such an air of brooding, so many dark rooms that quite give one a chill. I know I am more sensitive than most to the energies of the other side, but surely you too have felt the presence of those who lived here before.”

“Josiah Briggs, you mean?” Woding asked. “I feel his presence in every molding, every carving, every bit of black marble and fragment of stained glass.”

Sophie made a pouty face. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Do forgive me. I fully recognize this is an ancient structure, with walls dating all the way back to the 1820s.”

“Al-
ex.
” Sophie groaned.

“You have not introduced me to your companion,” he said, nodding toward the woman in garish clothing.

Sophie gave a smile like all of sunlight.
“This,”
she said, going to the woman and leading her forward, “is Madame Zousa.”

“How do you do, sir?” Madame Zousa said, giving a shallow curtsy while looking at the floor. She was of an indeterminate age, her coarse black hair peppered with gray that could have come at thirty-five or sixty-five. Her face was brownish and lined, but whether from age or sun Serena could not tell. Her expression revealed nothing of what she thought or felt.

“How do you do, madame,” Woding said to the woman.

“Madame Zousa is a
Gypsy
,” Sophie said in a loud whisper, as if it were a secret the woman did not already know. “She is going to help us to contact the ghost.”

“Is she now?” Woding did not sound amused.

“I tried to talk her out of it,” Blandamour complained, “but she was intent on bringing her.”

Miss Silverlock nodded her head in distressed agreement. “She was not to be dissuaded. There will be trouble when Mrs. Stearne hears of it, I have no doubt.”

“Oh, pish,” Sophie said. “Philippa makes a fuss no matter what I do. I can hardly wait to be married and in charge of myself.”

Serena saw the eyebrow Woding raised toward Blandamour, but the man was gazing cow-eyed at his fiancée, obviously no threat to her independence.

Underhill appeared, and soon was ushering Madame Zousa and Miss Silverlock up the stairs to their rooms, his pursed mouth indicative of his disapproval of the Gypsy. The threesome passed right by her, but the Gypsy did not so much as flick an eyelid in her direction.

Huh,
Serena thought.
So much for the Gypsy’s supposed powers.

She descended the remaining stairs and followed Woding, Sophie, and Mr. Blandamour into the blue drawing room, so named for the powder blue velvet upholstery on all the chairs and settees. The floor was an eye-crossing geometrical design of five different woods, the walls above the wainscoting covered in gilded paper, and the fireplace a black marble beast surmounted by a mirror, which in turn was topped by carvings of Gothic arches and the figures of saints. As with most of the other rooms, the view from the windows was the only place an eye could find peace and joy.

Unless one were a Sophie or a Briggs. Serena listened in disbelief as the young woman sighed over the details of the room, declaring to Blandamour that she should very much like to have a similar room in the vicarage.

Sophie sat at the end of a settee, untying her hat and setting it next to her. Serena went and sat several inches away
from the girl on the same settee, wanting to get a better look at this bit of frippery that shared blood with Woding. She looked closely at the features of the girl’s face, assessing the lines of brow and nose, then looked back at Woding.

He was staring at her, a bit of white showing round his irises. She gave a little shrug of apology, and moved away from his sister. She got a minuscule nod of his head in thanks, and she wondered once again just how well he could see her.

Sophie continued to chatter on, seemingly needing no more than an occasional murmur from her male companions to keep going. She had the same hair as Woding, and there was a similarity about the nose and mouth, but that was all the resemblance Serena could see. Certainly the effect of those features was much different when the lips would not stop moving than when they held still, as did Woding’s much of the time.

The aimless chatter grew quickly boring, and Serena’s mind began to wander. Sophie seemed a harmless enough sort, but she felt sorry for Blandamour, who would be listening to her for the next few decades. She was contemplating whether to stay for the sake of watching Woding, or go to preserve her sanity, when Woding spoke, drawing her attention back to what was being said.

“You were a fool to hire that Gypsy woman, Sophie, and you had no right to bring her to my home.”

“She comes very highly recommended.”

“She comes recommended by imbeciles. The woman is without question a charlatan, and the only feat she will accomplish is bilking you out of several pounds. Good lord, Sophie, when are you going to grow up and start acting as if you had an ounce of sense in your head?”

“That isn’t fair, Alex,” Sophie said, her voice trembling. “I was only trying to help.”

“You wanted to entertain yourself, and without giving a thought to how your actions might affect others.”

“But Beth is certain the house is haunted—”

“What if it is? Do you think a ghost would take kindly to having someone like Madame Zousa here? All that hiring a fake like her will succeed in doing is making matters worse.”

“Madame Zousa’s not a fake,” Sophie tried again, obviously hurt. “She can talk to Serena and find out what it is that has trapped her here on this mortal plane. Once she knows that, she will have the power to send her on to her final rest, and your castle will be haunted no more. It will be like an exorcism—only much more humane.”

“From the glee you’ve shown at the thought that the castle is haunted, I should have thought you would want it to remain so,” Alex said.

“’Twould not be Christian to know a soul was suffering in such awful torment and not try to help it onward, isn’t that right, Mr. Blandamour?” Sophie said, turning to her fiancé for support.

“Surely the greatest hell is to be held away from God’s love,” Blandamour agreed.

Serena rolled her eyes and heard Woding give a snort. She saw him glance over at her before addressing his sister again.

“Perhaps Serena does not wish to go. She may not be feeling particularly tormented by the absence of God’s love.”

Sophie laughed, the sound slightly teary. “You’re teasing me now.” She gave a quivering smile, evidently deciding that her brother could not be as angry as he seemed. “Beth told me you insisted it was a prankster causing all the fuss. Perhaps Madame Zousa will be able to locate him, if she fails in her search for Serena. I did not tell her Serena’s name, by the by, or even that it is a female ghost with which we are concerned. I am not a complete fool, you know. When she discovers the information on her own, we will know for certain that she is not taking advantage of our trusting natures.”

Woding shook his head, apparently abandoning hope of
making an impression on his younger sister. “Speaking of Beth, when I received your letter I asked her and Rhys to join us for dinner tonight”—he was interrupted by a shriek of delight from Sophie—“knowing how much you two enjoy one another’s company.”

After another ten minutes of prattle from Sophie, the young couple left to freshen up and change for dinner. Woding then surprised Serena by addressing her.

“Would you be so kind as to follow me to my study?” he asked in a low voice, glancing about to be sure no one was listening.

“Most happily,” Serena said in the voice he could hear, and then mentally berated herself for not just saying yes. She should not let him know how eager she was to speak with him again. One’s enemies should never know where one’s heart lay.

When they reached his tower study he closed the door, then went to lean against the edge of his desk. Serena sat in the window embrasure, there being no other chairs than the one behind his desk. She did like to stick to the conventions of being a living person, subject to gravity. Nonexistent chairs were to be used only in times of distress.

“I want to ask you a favor,” Woding said.

“Yes?”

“I’m sure you know as well as I do that that Gypsy woman is a fraud, and intent only on putting on a convincing performance to earn herself a few coins.”

“She walked right past me without so much as blinking an eye,” Serena confirmed. Really, the woman should have learned a bit of her trade. It was insulting to be passed by in such a manner.

“There, you see? She is undoubtedly harmless, her only threat being to the silver, which I am certain Underhill has already locked away. What I ask is that you refrain from doing anything to improve the Gypsy’s performance, and most
especially that you do not do anything to frighten or harm Sophie.”

“You know I would not harm a woman!” Serena cried, offended.

The corner of his mouth jerked in a quick smile. “I wanted to be certain you had not changed your mind, after hearing Sophie wanted to have you exorcised. That could be perceived as a direct provocation.”

“She’s a foolish girl,” Serena said. “Neither she nor that Gypsy woman are any danger to me.”

“Then you will stay away from Madame Zousa’s performance tonight?”

“I did not say that.”

“The last thing I need is for one of them to somehow catch a glimpse of you during it, or for you to go touching someone’s hair again.”

Serena clasped her guilty hands together, holding them against her stomach. “No one will see me. And I have no need to touch women’s hair.”

He looked doubtful, but let her protestations pass, changing the subject. “I had wondered where you had been these last few days. I thought you might have gone.”

“I won’t be so easy to get rid of as that, Woding,” she said haughtily. “I was thinking about our conversation, is all. I told you much about myself. It occurs to me that there is much I would like to have you explain about yourself, in turn,” she said, gesturing slightly with one finger toward the many-armed brass contraption.

His eyes followed the small movement, and he turned to look at where she pointed.
The wily scoundrel!
It was as she had feared! “The devil take thy guts!” she cried. “You lied to me, Woding! You see me much more clearly than you claimed!” She hopped off the embrasure, stalking toward him, her hands fisted at her sides.

He stood up, facing her as she approached.

“Forsooth, how much of me do you see?” she asked, horrified at the thought that he could see the scar that blazed its deep pink trail across her face.