The Ghost Who Loved Me (18 page)

Even Mrs. Gates seemed a trifle repentant in her mean-spirited attacks on her, seeking her council for any reason to avoid Schlossberg’s interrogation of the staff.

All seemed to be eager to be rid of Dr. Schlossberg, declaring the man ate twice his weight in food, drank everything not held down or locked up, and scared them out of their wits with his unorthodox examinations.

The day finally arrived for Dr. Schlossberg to leave Westerleigh or all were ready to do murder. The man had grown far too comfortable there. He pompously declared he almost had all he needed to give an informed report to His Lordship when he returned to London.

Mrs. Abbot went out of her way to see the man off much quicker than that, undercooking the meat, overcooking the vegetables, and serving an unpalatable meal that evening.

One of the footmen must have seen the sense in putting vinegar into the port and wine decanters that night, for he drank little at dinner. Likewise the maids placed an itchy substance in his laundry, causing him notable discomfort as he fidgeted in his seat during the meal.

These small things meant to push him out must have prompted Dr. Schlossberg’s desire to leave upon rising the next morning. And more notably, he skipped his usually enormous breakfast, taking a coach back to London in all haste.

All breathed a sigh of relief to see the man go. An unspoken alliance was formed that day between Elizabeth and the servants, who all went out of their way to show atonement for embellishing her mental state from then on.

~ ~ ~

Elizabeth rode out to the hunting lodge to see James, smiling as she thought of how cleverly she outsmarted the doctor. All Phineas managed to learn, when not in a drunken stupor, was all that she wished him to.

Schlossberg’s stout recommendation she dismiss some or all of her staff for insubordination was duly noted by her and them before he left the castle. He reminded her of her intention to write Lady Grantham before he departed, a sign he was indeed leaning to her side in the matter.

Elizabeth wished to see Edward’s face grow mottled red with anger when he read the glowing reports of her mental stability. She chuckled in amusement to imagine what the good doctor would say about the servant’s states of mind.

Either way, Edward failed at his goal to have her declared insane.

Her laughter suddenly sobered to think Edward would only find some other way to achieve his ends. The doctor’s report might vindicate her this time, but what if her husband sent another of Schlossberg’s cronies for a second opinion? Every man had his price. She was fortunate she discovered Schlossberg’s early on.

The glowing letter she sent to Lady Grantham after his departure would ensure the man’s loyalty to her, even if she knew no member of the hospital board would ever conceive of asking Schlossberg to join them.

He was disliked by many in the medical community. They saw him as nothing more than a charlatan who took advantage of the mentally ill under his care.

She cringed to think of the accusations made against Schlossberg and his peers, of the gross experiments that were rumored to be made on patients, all in the name of science.

Elizabeth slid off her horse and approached the lodge, seeing James floating upon the railing of the porch. His silver eyes were questioning as they met hers.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes, he’s gone, and I’m sure he has no further cause for concern,” she added lightly, “though he might have just cause to think the servants in need of psychological intervention.”

James grinned at her words and drifted down to stand before her, reaching out to caress her cheek, his fingers sliding through her face, making her shiver. “I had no doubt you would succeed in turning all around. What a surprise you have turned out to be, Lady Westerleigh. I’m most impressed.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, looking away in unease. “Edward will be furious when the doctor gives me a glowing report, of course.”

“Of course,” James agreed, his ghostly finger following the line of her lower lip. “He can do nothing more to hurt you, Elizabeth. He has lost.”

“This time he has lost! What of next?” She eyed him in worry, her dark blue eyes filled with apprehension. “This will just make Edward more determined to find some other means to be rid of me. You don’t know him as I do. He will see this as some sort of battle of wills.”

James’ eyes darkened subtly, his eyes dipping to her swelling décolletage above the neckline of her riding costume. “I would do battle with your will, my lady. I have missed you sorely these many nights out here alone.”

Elizabeth stared into his eyes, looking for signs of deceit in those glowing silver orbs. “You expect me to believe you stayed out here this whole time? You didn’t go into any of the maid’s rooms, perhaps?”

James regarded her with an infuriatingly mocking expression. “I haven’t sought any of them out in years, Elizabeth. The last was Edie, the kitchen maid, and she rather sought me out. That was more than five years ago. What is this all about?”

Elizabeth turned away, hugging herself about her middle. “I consider myself to be a moral woman, James. What we share isn’t something I lightly dismiss. I merely wanted to know if there were others.”

“Others?” James shook his head in disgust. “You mean you listen to idle servant’s gossip and would accuse me?”

She swung around, her blue eyes blazing with indignation. “Is it true?”

“No! And that should make you question what is really true here, Elizabeth. You have so little faith in others and even less in yourself! You expect the worst of people and never demand the best! You would believe whatever is said to avoid being hurt by the truth! It’s no wonder you sent Wakefield on his way when he tumbled off his bloody pedestal! It didn’t quite match your idea of perfection, did it? No, you saw he was just a man after all and deeply flawed. Isn’t that the truth?”

“How dare you!” Elizabeth glared and swatted at the air where he stood, her fist flying through him. “You have no right to speak to me this way! You don’t know a thing about me!”

James gave a scornful laugh, his silver eyes filled with anger. “I know you many times over, madam. I see a woman who feels sorry for her lot in life and does nothing to change it. I see a woman who rejects love because she’s too afraid of what others would say. I see a woman who believes she deserves the very worst life delivers because she feels unworthy. That is what I see, Elizabeth.” He grew quiet, seeing beyond her veil of tears. “And I see a woman who craves love, more than anything else in this world. She need only take it, and it would be hers.”

Elizabeth wiped away at her tears, biting her lip, her eyes deeply wounded. “You see more than I would have liked you to see.”

James hovered near, his eyes filled with infinite sadness. “You know how this will all end, Elizabeth? Either I move on in death or not, but you are still alive. You mustn’t ever forget that. I made that mistake once too. I can never go back and undo it.”

“You speak of Lenore now, don’t you?” Elizabeth stared at him intently. “You love her still?”

James smiled sadly, his ghostly finger mingling with a tear upon her cheek. “Love is all you take with you when you leave this life, Elizabeth. Someday you will know how it feels and have your answer. You’ll not want to give it up so easily. Or ever not regret its loss.”

“You told me you left Lenore and intended never to see her again,” Elizabeth reminded him softly. “Would you have made another choice if given the chance?”

“I would have never left her side if I could go back and do it over,” James affirmed quietly. “I was a fool! I put what I thought was best for her ahead of what I already knew in my heart. I failed us both, don’t you see? She expected so much more of me and I disappointed her. I am left with that, and my regret. It is all there is.”

Elizabeth didn’t know what to say, overwhelmed with the grief she heard in his voice.

James stared down at her fondly, his silver eyes tracing her face. “You look so much like her, Elizabeth. From the first moment I saw you it struck me, the way your hair catches the light, the way you laugh. You remind me so much of her. Your eyes are the same shade of blue. I can only guess she is some distant ancestor of yours. But that is where the similarities between you both end. Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you, Elizabeth? What I feel for you cannot exist in this life. I am a part of the past. All we have is today. Tomorrow is never promised. You deserve so much more than you’ve been given, and like her, you would never ask for your due. Don’t make the same mistakes as I did. Take your happiness and be selfish of it, wherever you might find it. Never let it go.”

Elizabeth reached up to touch his shadowy cheek, her fingers merging with his image. “Let us have today. I cannot think of what tomorrow means.”

James turned and opened the door to the lodge with a glance and looked back down at her in silent question. She walked ahead of him into the large house, smiling when he directed his energy and a fire came to life within the hearth. She trembled to hear the door shut behind her, to feel the cold feel of him standing at her back.

“Whatever tomorrow holds, I’ll not leave you a moment sooner than I must, Elizabeth,” James whispered close near her ear, making her shiver with sensual awareness. “And when I leave you, know that my heart stays with you, for always.”

Elizabeth rose earlier than was her usual habit. She saw to her own needs that morning, not waiting for Annie to come. She dressed in a simple grey wool gown. She went down below in the great hall to inform Mr. Pettigrew she was going into Tregaron for some shopping and to have a coach brought about.

In truth, she would seek out the pastor at St. Caron’s church and discover what she could about the ancient druids who once roamed these lands centuries ago, practicing their magic for both good and evil.

The reference books in the library were rich in folklore dating back to the early eleventh century, but she suspected the answers she needed were dated much further back. The fact Father Creaton, a devout man of God flung off his cloak of piousness to follow Lady Isabelle’s coven still mystified her.

Elizabeth still shivered to recall finding the large moss-covered rock jutting out of the ground where James was sacrificed during one of her recent rides. She cringed to think of his heart cut out of his chest before his eyes.

His remains were never found. James didn’t know where he was buried on the grounds, or if they removed his body and it was buried elsewhere. She intended to find out if she could.

But first, she had to discover what manner of a spell Isabelle used that night.

Elizabeth decided she would take the wooden box they found in the east tower with her, as well as the carvings and relics to discover their meanings. She had to decipher what Isabelle unleashed upon Westerleigh that night.

The fact the castle itself was held within the grasp of a curse didn’t escape her. She picked up many items in the house and watched in fascination as they flew from her hand to go back where they lived on tables or on shelves if she tried to take them out of the rooms. She could only assume these evil things were somehow different for she was able to remove them.

The information she found in Westerleigh’s library on the subject of the occult was vague. Isabelle’s manuscripts suggested the actual purpose of a human sacrifice was to appease whatever gods or demons the follower believed in. The trouble was in pinpointing which one of them that was.

The fact it occurred on All Hallow’s Eve was especially significant in all dark religions, even Christianity. It was the end of the summer harvest and the onset of winter. It was the darkest night of the year, where the line between the living and the dead was at its thinnest, allowing both sides a pathway to the other.

The importance of such a sacrifice would ensure the caster of the spell whatever they desired. It was apparent what Lady Isabelle wanted, the man in the goat’s mask whose identity James still wasn’t aware of. What wasn’t clear was what Isabelle hoped to attain besides the death of her husband.

The fact the imposter took his place as the Duke of Westerleigh after that night was irrefutable. What troubled her most was that the man never left the castle grounds until his death in 1564. It made her wonder what it was all for.

Surely Isabelle wanted much more than to live in obscurity for the rest of her life? Given what James told her about his haughty, grasping wife, she suspected Isabelle botched her recitation of the spell that night.

She didn’t get all she wanted by far.

James was still shocked no one ever came forward to challenge the imposter’s claim. It was as if all the servants and villagers were in collusion with Isabelle and her unknown lover.

Even more bizarre, Father Creaton accepted this new lord readily. His six seemingly loyal retainers never said a word of it, following all blindly. James’ claim they were all there the night he died made her sure he was right in that theory.

They were all in on it, every last one of them.

Whatever information she could find to begin to unravel this spell, she had to try. James had little faith in her success, telling her it was much too dangerous for her to be dabbling in the dark arts even if it would set him free.

His selfless intention to protect her made her smile dreamily, to recall the long passionate afternoon they spent at the lodge. She slipped away just before dark and returned to the castle alone, ignoring the speculative looks from the servants as she entered.

She withdrew with a tray to her room and preferred her own company that night, affording her much time to consider all that they talked about.

Elizabeth was glad she woke up alone that next morning. It gave her much time to decide what she must do. She was determined to break the spell that held him bound to Westerleigh. She avoided looking too closely at her own pain to think of his leaving her, knowing this is what had to happen.

~ ~ ~

Elizabeth entered the church rectory at the edge of the small town of Tregaron. She was directed to an office in the back of the church where Father Brannigan was working on his sermons for the next day.

He was a portly, graying middle-aged man with a florid face and bright merry blue eyes. He wiped his ink-smudged hand and shook hers warmly. The panic in his expression to learn her identity made her immediately put him at ease.

“Father, I know I have no appointment, but I needed to speak with you at once,” Elizabeth offered pleasantly and sat, declining tea from a nun who entered the office. “This will not take up too much of your time.”

The man nodded and sat back down. “It’s not often the Duke or Duchess of Westerleigh pays my parish a visit, Your Grace. You must forgive my bumbling. You took me by surprise. I had no idea you were in residence at the castle. Do forgive me.”

“I arrived but a few months ago. I’m helping a historian from London with a matter for his most recent book. I hoped you might be able to help me with some of the historical records.”

The priest smiled widely and nodded eagerly. “Of course, what do you wish to know, Your Ladyship?”

Elizabeth smiled at his helpful demeanor. “What do you know of Father Creaton, a priest who once ran this parish back in 1546? There isn’t much written of him. I thought while I was at Westerleigh I might see if any of the church histories might still exist to tell of his life.”

Father Brannigan frowned slightly, his whole manner abruptly changing. “The old church was burnt to the ground in 1547. Father Creaton was said to be inside at the time. Any writings he might have left behind were burned. What you see on the hillside is the old ruins. I don’t think I can help you with this matter, Your Grace.”

“You mean you won’t help me?” Elizabeth watched the myriad of emotions cross the old man’s rigid face and knew James was right. “I know he was a follower of witchcraft, Father Brannigan. I can assure you, that won’t be in the book.”

“There is no book of history being written of Tregaron, is there?” Father Brannigan’s look of disapproval at her lying to him, made her raise her eyebrow in turn. He flushed to realize he lied to her first.

Elizabeth smiled tightly, her blue eyes narrowing. “Nor will there ever be if you tell me what I wish to know, namely if any writings still exist that once belonged to Father Creaton. I can assure you they won’t be shared with another living soul. You have my word on it, Father.”

“Why do you wish to know about Father Creaton?” The man became agitated, tapping his fingers on the desk. “There is nothing to tell! He was likely mad! And from what I gather, a drunkard on top of all.”

“Why are you protecting him?” Elizabeth stared at the man, watching him squirm under her relentless stare. “He fell from his faith, and that alone is a sin. I wish to know why, or mainly who influenced that fall.”

Father Brannigan eyed her with an angry glint in his eye. “How did you find out Father Creaton was involved in witchcraft? That has never been revealed to anyone outside the church. The Archbishop suppressed such facts when the new priest arrived from London the following year.”

“I learned quite by accident while studying the history of Westerleigh.”

Father Brannigan raised a bushy white brow. “I see, and does the history you refer to involve the Carlisle family? You’re asking about James Carlisle, aren’t you? Our ghost has stirred up his fair share of questions over the years.”

Elizabeth nodded and inched forward. “Yes, I wish to know more about what happened during that time.”

“I’m rather surprised. You’re the first member of the family who ever actually came looking for any answers. The rest would have rather believed the silly superstitions passed down generation after generation,” the man began grimly with a reluctant sigh. “Very well, but if my words ever show up in any form of print, I’ll deny ever speaking with you, my lady.”

“You have my word, Father. I only wish to know what happened to Father Creaton. It may explain why this ghost still haunts the castle.”

Father Brannigan sipped his tea, eyeing her thoughtfully. “It is not a pretty tale, my lady. When a man of God loses his way, it never ends well for him or his followers. Many strange accidents occurred in the village that same year. Deadly fires took cottages and killed whole families; unexplained illnesses and tragic death was prevalent, as well as severe droughts. The plague that infected the area seemed to only attack the village and never strayed beyond. It was as if they were being punished, every one of them, and all those they loved.”

“You think they were punished by God for following Father Creaton?”

Father Brannigan rubbed his chin to consider her question. “I can only tell you that many of the villagers died. Their deaths were never explainable, even today. I would suggest God certainly didn’t intervene.”

Elizabeth nodded weakly, fear filling her to hear of the evil that inserted itself in Westerleigh. “Father Creaton wrote to James Carlisle quarterly and sometimes monthly while he was on the march in 1545 up until late October of 1546. Do you have copies of these letters in your possession? It was customary a priest would make copies of every official correspondence for their records.”

The man’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’ve been well informed of their existence. You must tell me which member of the church directed you here? I would know who to report to the Archbishop.”

“I talked to no one within the church,” Elizabeth insisted, her blue eyes filled with urgency. “If I told you how I know these letters exist, you would likely not believe me, sir!”

Father Brannigan sighed in defeat. “I can show you the letters and allow you to read them, but they can’t leave my possession, Lady Westerleigh. The church took great pains to make sure Father Creaton’s mishaps never became known. I think it best if we keep it that way.”

“I will wish to make notes, of course,” Elizabeth said in a rush as she slipped off her gloves. “I must know what Father Creaton was involved in to help someone I care a great deal for. This person is still being punished in the same manner as the others through no fault of his. Do you understand?”

He stared at her thoughtfully. “Sometimes the answer one seeks isn’t always solved by creating the same problem, Your Ladyship.” With that last bit of advice, the man rose from behind his desk. “I keep the letters hidden in our archives. I’ll return in a moment with them. You will find writing paper in the front desk.”

Elizabeth murmured her thanks, elated to have garnered more clues of what happened at Westerleigh; sure she would learn more once she read Father Creaton’s writings.

~ ~ ~

A few hours later, Elizabeth sat back in the chair behind the desk, her perusal of the old letters finally complete. She made many notes of the odd references the priest used in his correspondence with James. She struggled over the old phrases, and often illegible ramblings that made little sense to her. 

The letters began to change in their tone in late January 1546. The man would begin to write of the normal dealings within the village of Westerleigh, and in the next, he would talk of demons and strange happenings, of people disappearing.

The last letter was sent in late September, 1546. The signs he was slipping were most evident when he implored James to leave court and return home at once, saying the devil invaded Westerleigh. He feared for the souls of the villagers.

The priest said the envoy he requested from the Archbishop never arrived, found dead miles outside of the village. His body was disemboweled. Animals were slaughtered as well, their corpses hung from trees outside the village walls. Children were the most vulnerable, going missing from their beds in the night, never to be seen again.

A clear picture formed in her mind of what James must have thought while reading such dire news, prompting him to leave court. He told her he saw no signs of such depravation while passing through the village that late October morning. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Elizabeth shivered to read the other letters. They were from Father Creaton’s private papers, talking of being tested in his faith, his strength failing to resist evil, of the white witch who was devouring his soul. He never named Isabelle Carlisle by name in any of his writings, but he referred to her in numerous letters as the white witch, the scourge that infected all around her.

By the mournful tone of his later writings, he failed to drive out the evil in Westerleigh, his God abandoning him at the last. He railed against God in several sentences, cursing the saints, and renounced all of his theological teachings before the letter abruptly ended.

Elizabeth glanced up at the date of the letter at the top of the yellowed parchment. It was written the day before James returned to Westerleigh. There were no more letters after that. Father Creaton was burned alive in his own church in late January, 1547, just three months later.