2 Spirit of Denial (2 page)

C
lara was up late the next morning.  It had been a considerable forty-eight hours.  After the sleepless night fighting for survival, followed by the day of police questioning after she and Wesley emerged from the basement, then the travel back into town, and the revelation her house staff were a bit more than they seemed, she had fallen asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.  The sun was well in the sky before, blinking, she stumbled out of her room and downstairs for breakfast.  The house seemed more cheerful than she had left it.  She wondered if it was because recent events had changed her view of the world or if there was something more.  No matter, she went into the dining room and sat.  Within moments, Willard was there with the morning meal.

"Did you sleep well, ma'am?" he asked.

"Extremely," said Clara.  "How are you feeling today?"

He held up his hand to the window and stared at it with a smile.  "Solid as a rock.  It is good to have you home."

Nan’s cooking was excellent, as always.  Sated and happy, Clara was sipping her morning coffee when Willard came in with a note. 

"For you," he said.

Clara took the note from the tray with great curiosity, wondering who possibly might be writing.  Carefully, she broke the wax and read.

"
My darling Clara, I hope this letter finds you well.  It would bring such joy to this day if I could look forward to seeing you.  Please reply back at your earliest convenience.  Affectionately yours, Wesley
."

She hid her smile behind her cup, aware of the strange warmth in her heart brought about by just the looping scrawl of his hand.  If anyone had told her a week ago that someday someone would cause her pulse to pound again like a giddy school girl, she would have called them a liar.  She would love her husband Thomas forever, but Wesley... Wesley made her want to live.  She folded the paper and told herself to tread carefully. Danger makes strange bedfellows, and the unflattering light of reality often cooled the passions which once seemed so true.  Still...

"Willard?" she called.

The butler stepped into the room.  "Yes, ma'am?"

"Fetch me my writing box, please," she requested.

He gave a little bow and soon was back with her box.  She pulled out her ink and quill and stared at the blank page.  Finally, she wrote, "
You find me much pleased this morning to have received your letter and I would be glad to see you this evening
."  She signed it and placed it in an envelope.

"Willard, please see this goes out by post," she stated.

He gave another bow and left.

She would have liked to have invited Wesley over immediately, but today held a pressing matter. 

*****

A
special guard stood outside Marguerite Matson's private hospital room, keeping a protective eye over this brave and valuable undercover government agent.  The nun gave him a nod and he opened the door for her and Clara.  Marguerite was lying in her bed recovering from her gunshot wound.  The brash, headstrong woman from Lord Oroberg's séance seemed so frail and delicate in her sleep.  Her raven black hair was braided and hung over her shoulder.  Her head rested angelically against the pillow, her pale skin seemed now almost translucent. 

The nun said to Clara in soft but stern tones, "Be careful not to excite her, or we shall have to ask you to leave."

Marguerite's eyes popped open and she piped up from the bed, "I wish you would ask
me
to leave!"

The nun was too polite to make any remark, but couldn't keep a flash of frustration from crossing her face as she exited the room.  Clara tried not to laugh.

Clara walked over to the foot of the bed and looked affectionately upon Marguerite.  "And how are you recovering?" she asked.

Marguerite shifted impatiently.  "Bored doesn't even come close to it.  Oh, they have patched me up and soon I'll be as good as new.  But until then, I have so little to help me pass the time, I shall have to take to counting the threads in my sheets."

Clara removed a book from her handbag.  "Here, my friend.  I brought you a little something to help."

Marguerite reached out and took the book like a prisoner being handed out his rations.  "Oscar Wilde's
Picture of Dorian Gray
!"

"It's new," explained Clara. "He is an Irish writer and his essays have garnered praise.  I do hope it is good.  Something about a wicked man who keeps a painting in his attic so he might live forever."

"Sounds like our Violet and her plans for you," teased Marguerite.

Clara laughed, ruefully.  "Perhaps there shall be some tips and tricks we should make note of."

Marguerite opened its pages and inhaled.  "Oh, a new book!  The thought I can just rest and read almost makes the whole ordeal bearable."

"Well, let me see if I might have more to keep you occupied," said Clara.  She boldly sat down on the chair beside Marguerite.  She leaned forward and spoke, "I hope you will not consider me terribly forward, but I am afraid a matter of great urgency has been brought to my attention."

"Yes?" said Marguerite, her eyes twinkling with the scent of adventure in the air. 

Clara confided, "I recently moved into a house, and yesterday, I came to learn that the household staff in this home were murdered fifteen years ago."

"Indeed?"

"I have reason to believe that Violet was the perpetrator."

Color returned to Marguerite's cheeks and she leaned against her pillow thinking through Clara's words.  "That is something!"

"They said... I mean, the person I learned this from said... that the night before the massacre, an archeologist came to the house with a find from an ancient Egyptian tomb.  This object was given to Violet's father, Peter, whom I believe Hilda said disappeared with a large inheritance."

"I seem to remember that from the séance table, too," confirmed Marguerite.

"This object was given to him the night Horace's entire staff was killed.  They say the killer was a woman.  I just wonder if Violet's possession could have begun that night."

Marguerite's face clouded in thought.  "Norman and I were tracking a trail of destruction across Europe for the past fifteen years.  Strange stories of mysterious deaths.  Fifteen years, the same amount of time since the Nero family received this strange object.  Thank you, Clara."  She gripped Clara's hand tightly.  "I never would have guessed that such a thing could be at the heart of it!  Oh, that I could do something with this information now!"

It was just the opening Clara was waiting for.  "Perhaps I can be of assistance," Clara offered.  "It is the least I can do."

Marguerite seemed to think it over.  Clara could see she was hesitant, but finally Marguerite acquiesced and said, "I would never place you in such danger if it wasn't so terribly important."

"You are placing me in no such danger at all!" assured Clara.  "I wish to be of aid!  Please, tell me what I should do next."

Marguerite lifted herself from her pillow, wincing with the pain of her bullet wound.  "If this is in fact an artifact which caused the transformation, it must be in the personal belongings of either Horace or Violet.  You must speak with their solicitor.  Horace always used a man named Mr. Hampstead."  Marguerite motioned to a pencil and pad of paper and Clara fetched them for her.  As Marguerite wrote, she continued talking, "The manor house was to go to Violet after Hilda's death.  Knowing the creature she turned out to be, I have to think it was no accident Horace decided to rewrite his will when he did.  There is something there Violet wanted.  Perhaps you could pose as an interested party hoping to purchase an exotic item and see what comes up in the listings?  A lawyer can rarely turn his nose up at money."

"I shall!" said Clara.  "And thank you, Marguerite, for shedding light upon this mystery."

"Promise me one thing," said Marguerite, reaching out to grip Clara's hand.

"Of course," replied Clara.

"Promise you will bring Wesley with you," she said.  "I always had Norman.  There is safety in pairs.  If this article does infect people with this wickedness, I would hate for you to face it alone."

A cold chill ran over Clara.  "That I shall."

T
he cab pulled up in front of Clara's house and she exited with a glad heart.  Standing there waiting, leaning rakishly against the ironwork fence, was Wesley Lowenherz.  His dark auburn hair caught the light as he stood up the moment he caught sight of her.  He tipped his hat and she knew the twinkling gladness in his eyes was not false. 

"You are home!" he exclaimed.

She smiled as she fished through her bag for her key.  She could feel how he wished to run to her side and gather her up in an embrace.  Or perhaps it was only her own heart that wanted him to. 

"You should have waited indoors," she laughed.

"There was no one home," he replied, stepping in close to her, his eyes penetrating as if trying to will her to understand the volume of words not spilling out from his lips.  "And I was not sure if you would want me to."

Oh that she could press up against him as intimately as when he had cradled her, giving her his strength after Violet's attack.  Oh that those moments alone together in the dark could have never ended.  That he could sweep her up in his arms and carry her over the threshold of her door the way he had carried her only yesterday morning up the steps and out of the basement!

If only he could understand how much her life changed since she met him.  The way love unfolds is a strange mystery no science can predict, she thought.

"You look lovely," he said softly.

She looked down at her widow weeds, thinking of Thomas and how she thought she could never share her soul again.  And yet, here she was.

Caution! her mind told her.  She barely knew this man.  But in her heart, every moment in his presence caused her feelings to grow.

She looked up at the house, at the most intimate secret she had.  Could he accept that she lived in this haunted house or would he decry her as a madwoman?  It was a risk.  But as she looked at him, at his kind eyes, she wanted him to know this part of her. "I have something to show you," she said.  "Wait right here."

She walked up to the front door with resolution.  Willard was inside the foyer, polishing the silver candlesticks.  He looked up.  "Ah!  You are home.  I shall let Nan know to prepare supper."

"Wait on that, Willard," Clara replied.  "I have a strange request..."

Clara came over and spoke to Willard in low tones.  A slight smile crossed his face and then he bowed in agreement.  Clara went back outside to Wesley.

"Is everything fine?" he asked, worriedly.

"Very much so," Clara said, steeling her courage.  "But there is something you must know about me, something that might make you think me strange, so... I must show you and hope your feelings for me will not alter."  She pointed to the house.  The door opened.

"Did you see that?" she asked Wesley.

He nodded.  "Your manservant was unable to fix the latch for you yet?  I shall see if I can secure a workman."

Clara laughed.  "I do not need a workman.  Come along with me, Wesley."

Mystified, he followed her into the house.  Willard stood in the foyer as clear as day to Clara, but Wesley behaved as if they were quite alone.  In the seclusion of the house, Wesley tried to slip his arm around her waist.  Willard rolled his eyes.

"Just a moment, Wesley," Clara said, at once a little sorry that she had picked this moment to discuss this great matter with him rather than let their affections steer their course.  "There is someone here."

Wesley looked around, mystified.  "There is no one but us, my darling."

She turned to her butler.  "Willard, would you mind taking our things?"

"Who are you talking to?" Wesley asked, casually glancing into the walnut paneled library on one side and the green parlor on the other.

Willard walked over as Clara removed her black hat and cape. She replied, "My butler."

Wesley stepped forward, at once worried.  "I fear our adventure last night has caused you some distress.  Perhaps it would be best if you were to lie down."

Clara took Wesley's hat and held it, as well as her own articles, to the butler expectantly.  "It would be best, my dear Wesley, if you learned of the sort of company I now seem to be keeping."

Willard cleared his throat and reached out to take the caps and cape.

Wesley became as pale as a sheet, blinking his eyes as if he could not believe what he was seeing.  The cape and hats seemed to be floating down the hallway and magically placed themselves upon the hall tree.

He pointed, unable to find his voice.  "Clara!  That!  Your... your things!  Our things!  My hat!"

He dashed over and ran his hands in the air between Clara and the rack, looking for the wires and string.  He picked up his own hat, placed it on his head, and the dropped it, watching it fall to the ground.  Willard sighed, picked it up and returned it to its place.  Wesley backed away fearfully.

Teasingly, Clara shook her head like one who might dismiss the dramatics of a five-year-old.  "Really, Wesley, and you spent all that time on the stage professing to be a medium."

Wesley stopped, in awe and wonder.  "You mean... ghosts?  You have ghosts in your house?"

She rested her hand upon his arm tenderly.  "As you said, the night your sister died, the rest of the household staff passed away, too.  And they, like your sister, decided it would be best if they continued service to this home and its inhabitants."

Wesley peered into the air at a completely different spot than where Willard was standing.  "Really!  Ghosts!"

Willard cleared his throat again.  "Is there anything else you will be wanting, ma’am?"

"Yes, Willard, I am sure that Mr. Lowenherz is quite in need of something to drink.  Please bring tea for the both of us," she replied.

"Perhaps something a little stronger for me," Wesley said, peering into the air to try and find who Clara was talking to.