Elisabeth Fairchild (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

Copeland lay in bed watching moonlit snowflakes paint the gnarled arms of an oak tree
white, filling the hollows, catching in the bark’s staggered texture. Like a snowflake,
he had once been caught in his Uncle Cope’s open arms as he sobbed and scolded, both
of them cold to the bone. He had once caught Henrietta, sobbing her regret at her
brother’s passing. He had thought to marry her then, had clutched her close, and patted
her back and told her everything would be all right.

He had visualized a long life together.

Mistletoe dotted the upper branches, winter’s pagan offering to the night sky. He
thought of his guest, of the mistletoe she had clutched on their first meeting. Missed
mistletoe kisses. Three now. He might have kissed her three times, and still her lips
eluded him. Her arms, too.

Perhaps it was best. A dead man ought not tease any woman with kisses.

He thought of his guest’s refusal to keep the maids in her room. Did he make a great
mistake in asking Maddie and Megan to sleep on pallets outside her door? Would she
be offended? The poor maids would certainly be uncomfortable. And yet he was placed
in an awkward situation by this snow, by a single female guest.

“He forgot to see me off,” she had said.

Was
he
the man who had lured her from Man? Such sadness in her eyes, such sadness in her
song. Who dared to pain this lovely young woman’s heart?

As he would pain Henrietta’s?

He turned to fresh position in the bed, bent elbow under his cheek. Would it pain
Hen to know he devoted so much thought to another? Who did his dear friend think of
as she tucked herself in bed this cold evening?

The roads would be impassable by morning. He was sure of it. This afternoon the loss
of his houseful of guests had seemed a disaster. Tonight he hoped his guests safe
and warm, their evening as pleasantly spent as his.

A log shifted in the fireplace. Sparks flew, brief and bright. The bed seemed colder
than usual, the linens insufficiently warmed. He turned to stare at the coffered ceiling,
boxes within boxes. Was Miss Walcott’s room as cold? Did she lie awake thinking of
loved ones? Did Maddie’s snore echo in the hallway?

Do you intend to ravage me?

He laughed and rolled over, pillow tucked beneath his chin, memory playing her words,
her melancholy song, sad and beautiful. Like her. Belinda. Her brother called her
Bee. He must remember to ask about her brother in the morning. A safe topic, surely.

His mind fell quiet, and then to his surprise, he was beset by the oddest notion.

I am not alone.

Not that there was any sound to indicate as much. Not that anyone made a habit of
visiting his bedchamber in the middle of the night except by way of his dreams; quite
the contrary. And yet the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He held his breath
listening for some sound, the pounding of his heart fast and hard.

The fire crackled. Shadows slunk along the wall. Outside the window snow drifted silently.
His feet felt very cold.

“Who’s there?” He sat up in bed, heart thumping too fast for languid posture. When
met with no reply, simply the uneasy feeling that someone, or something, stood in
the shadows at the foot of the bed, he flung back the coverlet and thrust free chilled
toes.

The floor did nothing to warm his feet. Shadows reached for his ankles from beneath
the bed. Not to be intimidated, he flung wide the draperies. Snow-reflected moonlight
flooded the room.

No one there.
He stepped closer to be sure, and stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed. No—not
the bed—his body blocked the light.

He did not remember anything occupying the space at the foot of his bed. He hopped
around the edge of it, hand out, running along the lid’s edge, guarding his shin from
the corner. The moon brought to light its carved and painted darkness, oak leaves
in stylistic whorls at the base, carved figures along the sides. He had seen this
chest before—in Miss Walcott’s room—at the foot of Miss Walcott’s bed. His footmen
had carried it up the stairs.

His hand fell away, as if furniture might bite. For a wild moment Lord Copeland wondered
if he had strayed into the wrong room. But the only lump in the bed was that of his
covers, and the windows did not bear the stained-glass
fleur-de-lys
, so he reached for the edge of the chest again, thinking to lift it.

It would not respond to his tugging, and no slot visible for a key.

He intended to back away from it then, but his leg muscles froze. Only his heartbeat
raced.

He flung up his hands with a cry of alarm and sat up in bed, momentarily blinded by
the sliver of moonlight that peeped in through drawn draperies.

Drawn draperies?
But he had flung them wide.

His door stood ajar.

A dream?
his mind shouted.
No. Too real. Someone has been here.

Heart hammering, he rose, feet like blocks of ice, knees strangely weak as he threw
back the draperies. Moonlight spilled across the floor, across the rumpled counterpane.

There was no chest at the foot of the bed.

Chapter Twelve

A drink
. He needed a drink. Warming ice-cold toes in hand-knitted slippers, an India silk
dressing jacket tossed carelessly about his shoulders, he billowed downstairs to the
decanters in his study, heart thudding far faster than his heels on the stairs. Was
it medicine or a drink he needed most? His London physician had warned him to stay
away from spirits.
Ha!
Better to warn the spirits to stay away from him. He definitely needed a drink.

His hand shook as he poured brandy. The glass chittered against the decanter’s crystal
lip.

Gabe raised his golden head from his spot on the rug. The fire had died down. Shadows
swallowed the room. Copeland darted sideways glances at the figures that held the
mantel, daring them to move as he stirred the ashes and added more wood, and looked
up to find the dog staring at the doorway.

I am not alone.

Bolton stood fully dressed, in the shadows.

“Scared the living daylights out of me, man,” Copeland cried out, heart thudding harder,
the brandy a tempest in his glass.

“I am sorry to alarm you, my lord. I heard the noise you were making and came to see
if you required any assistance.”

“Care for a drink?” Copeland offered, wincing as he threw back a gulp.

Bolton’s brows rose. Copeland had never offered him spirits before. “Trouble sleeping,
my lord?”

“Bad dream.”

“Have the ghosts of Broomhill been haunting you too, my lord?”

“Not ghosts, Bolton. A bloody chest.”

“You are ill, my lord?” Bolton sounded worried.

Copeland laughed. “Not my chest. The traveling kind.”

“Ah! Perhaps something to do with your concern for your stranded guests, my lord?”

Copeland frowned, then shook his head and smiled wryly. How logical. “Quite likely.”

“Would a hot drink help, my lord?”

Copeland sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You are the best of men, Bolton,
but do not trouble yourself. I shall just finish this brandy, and off to bed again.
I am sorry to have roused you.”

“No trouble, my lord.”

As he stepped through the doorway, Copeland called him back again. “Bolton?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“You said ‘haunting you too.’ What did you mean by it?”

The ghost of a smile touched the old man’s lips. “Very kind of you to ask, my lord.
There are one or two of the staff who have been troubled by bad dreams since coming
to Broomhill.”

Copeland frowned. “Gossip of ghosts, no doubt.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Copeland waited for more.

Bolton took his time. It was his way to go slowly, deliberately, never an exclamation
or blurted word. “Stories have come to us by way of the dairymaid, the baker’s lad,
the butcher, and the wine merchant, my lord.” He paused. “The coachman who brought
the musicians today had heard tales of Broomhill. The most haunted house in Hampshire
he claimed, my lord. Have we seen the green man in the garden? They wish to know.
Does the gray lady still walk the upper corridor? Has the bride in white made herself
known?”

“I see.” The brandy began to work its magic, warming Copeland, calming him. So foolish
Bolton managed to make all fears sound. It was all just a dream, and too much gossip
of ghosts, and an overactive imagination.

“The coachman claims to have seen a gentleman down by the pond in a green coat.”

“Indeed?” Lord Copeland looked up with a start.

“Says the man plunged into the pond, and when he ran forward to help, there was no
sign of him, not even a ripple upon the water. I can only assume he had to have been
drinking, my lord.”

Copeland swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Does he make a habit of imbibing?”

“No, my lord. Quite a sober fellow, I am told. Not given to wild tales.”

“And Maddie?

“Maddie, my lord?”

“Did Maddie tell you why she dropped the crock upstairs?”

“Other than clumsiness, my lord?”

“She wore a most terrified expression when I met her on the stairs, but would not
tell me what upset her.”

Bolton tipped his graying head, considering this. “I shall look into it, my lord.”

Above them came the sound of footsteps.

Gabriel stood, ears alert, the hair at the back of his neck raised, a low whine leaking
from his throat.

Lord Copeland thought immediately of his guest. He imagined her wandering the corridors
in her nightclothes. “Oh dear,” he said. “We’ve roused someone.” He was rather aroused
himself, thinking of those nightclothes.

“In the chapel, my lord?” Bolton sounded puzzled. Of course he would know exactly
which room was directly above them.

Copeland pressed a hand to his chest, irritated that footsteps in the night should
make his pulse race. “What the devil is someone doing in the chapel at this hour?”

“I shall just go and see,” Bolton promised. Gabriel padded after him.

“Tell whoever it is, back to bed, and very sorry to have disturbed,” Copeland called
after him.

“Yes, my lord.”

Glass empty, a warm glow in the pit of his belly and the burn of the last mouthful
of brandy still aromatic on his tongue, Lord Copeland headed back to bed, only to
be met by the skitter and thump of Gabriel as he came charging downstairs at a run,
tail tucked.

“What’s this, then, Gabe?” Copeland bent to stop him, to calm him, but the spaniel,
eyes showing white, slipped his grasp with a yelp and kept going. Dashing behind the
suit of armor at the base of the stairs the dog emitted a pitiful whimpering. Copeland
attempted to comfort the trembling dog without success. He kept banging his head against
the elbow of the armor, which only served to send Gabriel cowering again.

At last, he gathered the pup in his arms and climbed the stairs. Meeting Bolton at
the top, he asked, “What ails Gabe? He acts as if the devil himself were after him.”

“I do not know, my lord. The poor creature stopped just outside the chapel door, hackles
raised, refused to come to heel when I called, then turned tail and went galloping
away.”

The poor creature struggled even now to be freed. Copeland soothed the silken head
with gentle hand. “And who was walking about at this hour of the night?” Exhausted
irritability fast replaced the mellow warmth of the brandy.

“The place was empty, my lord.”

“Empty? Are you sure?”

“I checked most thoroughly, my lord, looking between all the pews and behind the altar.
Not a soul to be seen. Shall I check again, my lord?”

“No. No. We shall sort it out in the morning.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good night, Bolton.”

“Good night, my lord. Shall I take the dog?”

“No. I shall keep him with me tonight, Bolton.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The circle of light from Bolton’s lamp parted from the smaller, wavering circle his
candlestick threw. Shadows leapt and played upon the walls. Gabriel whimpered.

With no inclination to dally in dark hallways, Copeland returned to a room of moonlit
darkness, a clutching closeness of shadowed corners and tumbled bedclothes. Candlelight
danced, playing tricks on his eyes. The memory of his fear over a silly nightmare,
coupled with the fear he had seen in Gabriel’s tucked tail and rolling eyes, led him
to settle the dog among the bedcovers.

As he pinched out the candle he could not help but wonder who walked the chapel in
the middle of the night. What was there to fear in a dream? In a dog’s foolishness?
Silly, really. Surely nothing could be more fearful than the knowledge one was dying?

And yet he lay in bed wide-eyed, heart thumping wildly, staring at the mounded covers
that marked his feet, and Gabe’s sleeping form. He was unaware when his eyelids drooped,
when fatigue overtook him, when the woman in white came and sank into the bed beside
him.

He only knew he woke, but no, not a waking state at all, this was a dream in which
he thought he woke to find himself cradled in warmth, in the comforting smell of Christmas,
evergreens and cedar, his head filled with it, evoking all the pleasant memories of
Christmases past.

The bedclothes cocooned him. Or was it someone in the bed! His heart sprang into a
dead run.

He thought to turn, to confront the audacious invader of his private and personal
space, but a murmur in his ear, in his bed, in the middle of the night, stopped him.

“Who?” he managed to sputter.

He told his limbs to turn, to face her, for it seemed a woman’s voice, but his body
did not listen, and his eyes did not want to remain open. So heavy he felt. So tired.
The wonderful well of her heat was deep and welcoming.

She spoke, breath cool against his temple.

“Sleep,” she whispered, so soft he wondered if it was the crisp hiss of clean linen
whispering against his nightshirt, not a woman at all.

Frozen. He lay frozen, heart stopped, breath stopped, but then it seemed that strong
hands clasped his chest, and forced his heart to beat again.

A dream. It must be a dream, he told himself as his breath dragged back into his lungs
with a gasp. The idea could not calm him, or slow the horrible banging of his pulse,
but the warmth of the bed, the covers like arms about him, brought some comfort.

Wrapped tightly, cloaked in possibilities, he slid into the warmth, sank willingly
under the weighty blanket of darkness and sleep. He jerked, forced his eyes to pierce
the darkness. He must know who the woman was—this stranger who invaded his private
chamber.

“Sleep,” she breathed, something familiar in that voice, elusive, like a half-forgotten
song, a tune so beautiful and soothing he could never forget the words.

Never forget.

She slipped away like smoke upon a breeze, faded from memory like a dream in daylight.

The world went white, the brightness through the windows, cold and still, all hard
edges softly draped, sound muffled, snow still falling—Gabriel on the bed, curled
in a warm ball near his feet, fur scented with evergreens and wood smoke. In looking
at the animal, the silky beauty of the golden ears, the loving sparkle in deep, golden-brown
eyes, Copeland feared this was all he had to look forward to in the sharing of his
bed—a dog to warm his feet, to perfume his linens.

His heart ached. He closed his eyes, curled deeper into the bedclothes’ warm weight,
trying to recall the wisps of dreaming, something pleasant, vital. He had vowed not
to forget. The harder he tried to remember, the more the dream eluded him. He sighed,
and stretched, and glared a moment at the hollow where he had lain, the empty pillow
on the far side.

A carved chest. He had dreamed of a chest at the foot of the bed. He had stubbed his
toe. He pressed his fingers to the spot, a slight tenderness there. Memory floated
up from the dark waters of forgetfulness.

Sadness welled as he sat up in bed, an unutterable sadness that prompted a longing
to dive back under the covers, to give up bathing, and shaving, and tying a neck cloth.
But then he imagined his guests, carriage wheels mired in snow, Henrietta warming
herself at some country inn or posting house, fretting over her immobility. He must
not give in to melancholy.
No time for it.

Besides, Miss Walcott would have nothing to do without him. Memory stirred like the
buzz of a bee flown too close. Why had he dreamed about Belinda Walcott’s chest?

Double entendre.

He laughed, flung back the covers, thought again of bumping up against Miss Walcott’s
chest. Unintentional but funny, and no one to share such a jest with. Marcus would
have laughed. And James? Would James have laughed, had he lived long enough to enjoy
adolescent humor?

He remembered a child’s laughter, could not imagine the man, and thought suddenly,
effortlessly, of the woman who had whispered in the night. His dream woman. She was
what he must not forget. So real she had seemed, so very real, in his bed, her hands
on his heart, forcing it to beat.

Half an hour later, with an irritated twitch of the wrist, he straightened the folds
of his neck cloth and allowed himself a moment of pique at the undeniable postponement
of well-laid plans. His reflection frowned as his valet reached for his waistcoat.

One must learn to live with dashed dreams, real and imagined. He should have mastered
it by now, for life itself was a dashed dream at this point with a heart that did
not want to keep beating. This dream—unforgettable, incomparable—why dream this dream,
now that he had decided he must not marry, and that Henrietta Gooding must be told
as much? Did he do himself great disfavor in clinging to the idea that supernatural
forces might keep his heart throbbing? The dream seemed impossible. Like the ice.
So quickly it had broken. One moment James stood balanced on his skates, the next . . .

Doaks, his valet, cleared his throat, as he slid the waistcoat neatly over his arms.

Copeland turned as he fastened buttons. “Something amiss?”

Doaks handed him his coat. “Mr. Bolton, my lord, asked me to convey to you his desire
for a word, as soon as you are dressed.”

Copeland nodded, and stood chin raised. Doaks straightened the set of his collar,
smoothed the shoulders of his coat, and tugged his waistcoat and coattails into perfect
alignment.

He was met by Bolton in the corridor outside his bedchamber, Gabriel at his heels.

“Cook, my lord . . .” he began.

Copeland glanced at the far end of the corridor. The door to Miss Walcott’s bedchamber
was slightly ajar. Did he precede or follow his guest in rising this morning? He wondered
what sort of dastardly fellow had lured the young woman from Man, and if her trunk
still stood at the foot of her bed. And he wondered if Miss Walcott was a woman to
go wandering in the night.

Blasted dream.
Why could he not remember the whole of it? The woman’s face, her voice, eluded him.
But she could not be real. A real woman could not sink her hands into a man’s chest
and give pulse to his very heartbeat.