Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River (34 page)

Shivering, Cecilia glanced about the cellar. Potatoes were lumped in one corner in their rough burlap sacks. Uncaring of the mess, she dumped them out and wrapped the coarse material around her. She was still cold beyond belief, but she would survive the night. She would—and in the morrow she would win free of the cellar. Somehow.

Clinging to that thought, Cecilia closed her eyes and sank into frost-laden, fitful sleep.

***

Liam woke, cold beneath his blankets despite the coals still glowing on his hearth. He pulled the covers up about his chin, but sleep was gone. After a solid half-hour of chasing after it, he gave up and rose, donning his clothing. A quick glance between the curtains showed the edge of dawn shading the horizon. Christmas Day was here—and he had nothing to give Cecilia.

Or perhaps he had everything to give. But would she accept?

He sat on the edge of the unmade bed, turning his signet ring back and forth between his fingers. The gold was warm, the sapphire bezel gleaming in the dim light. Hope and fear alternated, strobing across his soul until he was dizzy.

What was he even contemplating?

He could not ask Cecilia Fairfax to marry him. They scarcely knew one another. No, he would depart on the morrow. If they continued to correspond, or if Marcus invited him for another visit,
then
he might muster up the courage. But he could not do it now. It was the outside of foolishness, especially since she had no reason to tell him yes. Why would she?

Far better to wait.

Mind made up, the clamor of emotions beneath his skin stilled. Liam slipped the signet ring back on his finger.

A quiet knock sounded at his door, and the dark-haired maid slipped into the room. She drew up short at the sight of him. Her eyes darted to the rumpled covers, then back to him, and she bobbed a quick curtsey.

“Good morning, milord.” She hesitated a moment, then went to the hearth and began building up the fire.

Prompted by some impulse, Liam asked, “Is everything well?”

“Oh!” The maid glanced up at him. “Truthfully, milord? Miss Cecilia has disappeared.”

“What?” He rose abruptly. “Disappeared, how?”

“No one knows. Her bed wasn’t slept in, and she’s nowhere to be found.”

Ah, that explained the furtive glance at his bed—as if the servants had thought their errant mistress would perhaps be found there. He cleared his throat.

“Is the family awake?”

“Yes, they’re in the parlor. They’re organizing search parties, if you want to ride out.”

Cecilia Fairfax missing. An impossible hole opened in the fabric of his world. How could he come back to court her if she was
gone
?

Leaving the maid, he strode into the hallway. He could not believe Cecilia had simply disappeared. Not here, in the serene heart of Wiltshire, surrounded by family and friends.

A flicker of movement at the head of the stairs made him glance up, and Liam stumbled to a halt. A girl stood there, garbed in an odd, old-fashioned dress.

But that was not what sent a shiver prickling over his skin. It was that he could see right through her to the paneled walls, her figure transparent as mist.

“Lizzy?” he whispered, his mouth dry as paper.

She nodded and beckoned urgently, then glided down the staircase. Liam stood frozen for a heartbeat, then sprang forward. He did not think the ghost meant him harm. Did she know what had befallen Cecilia?

At the foot of the stairs, he glanced wildly about, then spotted Lizzy’s pale form hovering near the front door.

“Outside?” he asked.

In answer, the ghost passed through the solid mahogany door and was gone. Liam hurried to follow. He undid the lock and threw open the door, just as Marcus emerged from the parlor.

“Tarrick,” Marcus said, “what the devil are you doing?”

“Lizzy went outside,” Liam replied, a bit incoherently.

There wasn’t time to explain. He bolted down the front steps, Marcus close behind. A tattered bit of mist rounded the corner of the house, and Liam pursued. He halted outside the mounded rows of the kitchen garden. There was no sign of the ghost.

“Where are you?” he cried, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Cecilia could not be lost to him. He would not allow it.

“Are you out of your head?” Marcus asked, drawing up beside him.

“Hush.” Liam slashed his hand downward.

A muffled thumping issued from the far corner of the house. Liam hastened toward the sound, pausing at the head of a rough stone staircase running down the outside wall.

“The cellar!” Marcus said.

The two of them sprinted down the stairs to the door at the bottom. Liam grasped the handle, but the door was locked. At the sound of the rattling latch, the thumping ceased.

“Help!” It was Cecilia’s voice, issuing from behind the cellar door.

“Cecy?” her brother called. “Can you hear me?”

“Marcus—I’m here.” Her reply was faint, but present.

“Thank God.”

Liam agreed—but Cecilia was still locked in the cellar. “Who has the keys?” he demanded.

Marcus frowned. “Mrs. Bess. I’ll go find her.” He ran up the steps, pausing at the top. “You stay here.”

As if Liam would budge from the spot.

“Miss Fairfax,” he called through the door, “Cecilia. Are you unharmed?”

“Mostly, though I’m a bit chilled.” Her voice was weaker than he liked.

“Your brother has gone to find the keys. We’ll have you out of there in a thrice.”

“Liam?” There was a desperate ring to her words. “Please keep talking to me.”

“What should I say?”

“Anything. I just—I need to hear the sound of someone’s voice. Your voice.”

He drew in a deep breath and then, before he could persuade himself otherwise, said the words.

“Miss Fairfax, will you marry me?”

Silence, underscored by the heavy beating of his heart.

“Excuse me? Are you jesting?”

“Never. I know the situation is hardly…” Damnation. What was he thinking, asking Cecilia to marry him through the thick expanse of a wooden door? He was a coward of the first order. “That is to say—here comes your brother.”

Liam stepped back as Marcus bounded down the stairs, a ring of keys in his hand. Behind him came Lord Fairfax, the Widow Pomfrey, and a cluster of servants, white-haired Mrs. Bess among them.

“Which key is it, Cecy?” Marcus rattled the ring in frustration.

“The smaller iron one,” she called back.

Marcus fitted it into the lock and, after another excruciating second, it turned. He threw open the door to reveal the wan and trembling form of his sister, coarse burlap sacks wrapped around her shoulders and upper body.

Without a word, Liam stepped into the dank interior and swept Cecilia up into his arms. She made no protest, only blinked and turned her face to his chest when they emerged into the light.

“Brandy,” he said, ascending the stairs with her. “And blankets—in the parlor. Is there a closer entrance into the house?”

“Here,” her father said, holding open a door that led into the kitchen.

Liam bore his precious burden to the parlor and sank down before the fire, still holding Cecilia. Shivers ran through her, and be damned if he was going to let her go.

Unless, of course, she wanted him to. Terrible though the prospect might be.

“Here,” Marcus said, holding out a glass of brandy.

Cecilia lifted her head, her eyes the color of a bruise, and took a tiny sip.

“More,” Liam said. “You must get warm.”

She took a larger drink, then coughed and shuddered as the brandy went down.

“Blankets, milord.” The dark-haired maid hastened to the hearth, her arms full of woven wool.

As if the sight of the maid was a catalyst, Cecilia sat up and gently slid from Liam’s arms. She pulled off the burlap sacking, leaving streaks of grime on her red dress and a smudge on her cheek. Before she could start shivering again, the maid draped a blanket about her shoulders, and another across her lap.

“Thank you,” Cecilia said, glancing about the room. “Thank you all. I’m so glad you found me.”

“How the devil did you get locked in the cellar?” Marcus said.

“Poor Mrs. Bess is wandering in her wits. She didn’t mean to lock me in, but I fear she forgot my presence.” Cecilia shook her head. “I didn’t want to relieve her of her duties.”

“And look at the cost to you, poor dear,” the Widow Pomfrey said.

“She must be retired,” Cecilia’s father said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Immediately.”

Cecilia bit her lip. “Yes, but I have no one to take her place.”

“As to that…” The widow glanced at Lord Fairfax, a faint blush suffusing her round cheeks. “Please let me assist you. I know a woman from the village who might suit admirably.”

“Excellent,” Cecilia said, catching the widow’s gaze.

Liam had the impression some small, secret communication known only to women passed between them, for the widow smiled and Cecilia nodded again.

“Lord Tarrick,” Cecilia said, turning to him. “I believe you asked me a question.”

He stiffened, the blood catching in his veins.

“I did.”

“Would you do me the favor of asking it again?”

“Here?” He glanced about the parlor, from Marcus sitting on the carpet beside his sister, to Lord Fairfax and Widow Pomfrey, to the dark-haired maid.

“Yes.” Cecilia’s voice was clear and firm.

Very well. His chest tightened, but he was hers to command. Liam shifted onto his knees and faced her. Taking her hands in his—her fingers still too cold for his liking—he swallowed once, for courage.

“Miss Cecilia Fairfax. Would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

The room stilled. Even the flames in the hearth seemed to pause. Liam could scarcely breathe.

Cecilia tipped her head.

Liam wanted to close his eyes, wanted to leap to his feet and rush back to the isolated safety of Tarrick Hall, never to come out again. Instead he forced himself to wait, the signet ring heavy on his finger.

At last, Cecilia smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds in a blaze of promise. A hot prickle started up behind Liam’s eyes, accompanied by a sense of hope beyond anything he had ever felt.

“Yes, Liam. I will marry you.” She leaned forward and kissed him, gently, on the lips.

The world spun from that point of contact, the moon revolved, the planets danced, all because Cecilia Fairfax had consented to be his bride. Something inside Liam mended—something he had not even known was broken, until recent months.

Marcus let out a whoop and clapped him on the back, the maid cheered, and Lord Fairfax smiled broadly.

“I beg your forgiveness, sir,” Liam said, glancing up to her father. “I ought to have asked you first, but—”

“I understand,” Cecilia’s father said. “Sometimes the heart precedes the head in such matters. You have my blessing.”

Liam slipped the gold signet of the Earls of Tarrick from his finger and handed it to Cecilia. The sapphire shone in her cupped hand.

“This is all I have to give you,” he said. “My name, my title. My heart. Everything I am and everything I have is yours, Cecilia Fairfax.”

“It is more than enough, Liam.” His name from her lips was like a hymn of salvation. “More than I had ever hoped for.”

Tears shone in her eyes, brighter than the sapphire in his ring.

“Happy Christmas, my countess,” he said.

Something half-seen at the edge of his vision made him glance to the doorway. The transparent figure of Lizzy stood there, smiling. As he watched, she faded away, leaving only mortal joy to fill the parlor.

Which was, indeed, enough.

Acknowledgements

This project wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without the Kickstarter support from these wonderful people:

Gerard M. Ackerman

JC Andrijeski

Donald J. Bingle

Kirsten Brodbeck-Kenney

AnneMarie Buhl

T. Thorn Coyle

Gary Dockter

Eric Edstrom

Lynda Foley

Karen Fonville

Robbyn Foster

Mark-Wayne Harris

Malachi Kenney

Pierre L’Allier

Rich Laux

Stephen Lebans

Christel Adina Loar

John Lorentz

Michael Lucas

Big Ed Magusson

Lisa M. May

Robert J. McCarter

Sean Monaghan

Carole Nelson Douglas

Alexei Pawlowski