Whispers at Midnight (3 page)

The only odd occurrences Amanda had seen
when she stayed at Wicklow House those few months in her childhood
had been the bullyragging by one of Aunt Elise’s two sons to give
her a fright. Ryne Sullivan moaning and prancing about wrapped in a
bed linen was the only ghost she suspected of having haunted
Wicklow’s halls. Aunt Elise had taken him to task about that
chicanery, saying he was much too old for such a deed.

Still, Amanda was surprised the house
actually frightened Elizabeth. She found its strangeness intriguing
and stimulating. The Turkish King with its garish, bright colors
delighted her as much as it had eleven years ago when she had seen
it as a child of twelve.

Reverently Amanda strolled to the foot of
the statue. She looked up at the figure, dusty, dirty, and with
cobwebs raddled across its chest and arms. The statue had cast a
sort of spell over her when she was a child and she could feel the
same bewitching attraction coming over her now as she stood in
childlike awe at its feet.

Holding a candle close, she rubbed a hand
over the brass plate shaped like a scroll and bolted to the base.
The engraved words were written in Persian. Hadn’t she known what
they meant once? She remembered standing in the same spot with Aunt
Elise and learning the words to a rhyme which somehow had slipped
her memory over the years.

Amanda remembered, too, more tales of
treasure and dead men that the boys, Gardner and Ryne, had told
her. Aunt Elise’s sons were still strong in her memory. Gardner
with his red hair and gentle ways; Ryne, dark-haired and fiery, a
trickster who had delighted in tormenting a mere girl. She had
followed them both about mercilessly, demanding to be included in
all their activities. They would be men now. How would they feel
about her inheriting the house that had been their boyhood
home?

Amanda smiled, feeling as if she were
passing through a mirror to the times when Aunt Elise would find
her at the foot of the statue sitting with her arms and legs folded
in the same manner as those of the king. Aunt Elise had said then
she believed Amanda loved Wicklow more than anyone else, even her
own sons. Perhaps that was why she had willed the house to Amanda
rather than to Gardner or Ryne. It had been most unexpected,
especially since Elise Sullivan had not been her real aunt, merely
a close friend of her mother’s.

Her thoughts wandered nostalgically back
through the days of that summer. Her mother had done a tour in the
colonies, and while she traveled the larger cities, Amanda remained
at Wicklow. She remembered walking along the riverbank with Elise
and the times she had ridden Ryne’s spotted pony. Elise’s
dressmaker had sewn new gowns for her; one of them, of a
peach-colored dimity, had been an exact copy of a gown of
Elise’s.

Aunt Elise had spent long hours teaching her
the game of chess that summer. She remembered the set, an unusual
one, the Eastern monarchs and their forces, white of gleaming
ivory, the black of shiny ebony. Good against evil, it had seemed
to her childish mind, and had insisted on always having the white
pieces. She had never forgotten those pleasant hours devoted solely
to her, nor had she forgotten what Elise had told her.

“I love my sons but I have always wished for
a daughter,” she said. “And you, my darling, have helped fill that
void for me. I shall always consider you my daughter, even though
you are Sarah’s.”

Across the ivory-and-gold board it had been
easy to form a bond with Aunt Elise and to imagine that kindly
woman, so interested in a young girl, as her mother. After that
time, she had corresponded with Elise often, and seen her twice
when she was in Europe. The attachment to Elise, begun early in her
life, had lasted through time and separation, and now, even
death.

Elizabeth moaned from behind her and Amanda
turned to smile at the old woman, a look of fondness lighting her
eyes. There was a movement from high above as she beckoned
Elizabeth toward the stairs. A small black shadow appeared and
quickly retreated behind the turbaned head of the king. A
screeching voice issued piercingly from that point. Amanda gave a
gasp as she felt a sharp stirring of alarm.

“Stay away! Stay away!” the shrill voice
warned.

Elizabeth screamed and collapsed against the
wall.

“Who’s there?” Amanda demanded, scrambling
around as the voice shattered the silence once more. She felt the
prickling of her skin and at the same time the shaking loose of a
deep memory from her childhood. She knew the voice, but could he
still be alive?

“King of light, chase the night. King of
light, chase the night.” A fluttering sounded as the small shadow
lifted from the shoulder of the Turkish King and swooped across the
hall to rest on the banister halfway up the stairs. Amanda could
see the green-feathered creature with its malevolent black eyes
quite clearly.

Her anxiety subsided and she laughed
breathlessly. “Why, it
is
Ezra! And still alive.” Turning to
Elizabeth, she added, “It’s only a parrot, a pet. Nothing to be
afraid of. He’s been here for ages,” she went on in a light, lively
voice. “I remember Aunt Elise saying parrots can live almost a
century. Why, Elizabeth,”—Amanda’s eyes swept up to the bird—”Ezra
belonged to Jubal Wicklow. Imagine that.”

Apparently certain the two women meant him
no harm, the parrot lifted his wings and showed a splash of gold
from underneath as he flapped them noisily for a moment before
flying back to his resting place on the statue’s shoulder. The
shadow at the window, Amanda thought, as Ezra clacked his beak
against the wood. It had been the bird watching.

She noticed Elizabeth still leaning her
weight against the wall and nodded.

“Elizabeth, you’re tired.” She spoke gently,
stepping beside the old woman. “Come upstairs to bed. You’ve a long
trip before you tomorrow.”

Elizabeth obeyed like a recalcitrant child.
Amanda had to grasp her limp, trembling hand and lead her up the
gracefully curving staircase. It seemed always to be like this,
that she had to take charge and look after her elders, just as she
had with her mother. Sarah Fairfax had been the most accomplished
actress in London but she had needed pampering from everyone,
including her daughter. Without Amanda’s efforts to keep her
financial and personal affairs straight, Sarah would have suffered
ruin years ago.

But now Amanda had only herself to care for.
Once Elizabeth was on her way, she would be quite alone, except for
Wicklow. Despite how anyone else might view the house, Wicklow
would never be a monstrosity to Amanda.

She would not even let the gloomy darkness
at the top of the stairs mislead her. Wicklow was a haven. The home
she had always wanted, a place to settle and take root, a place to
establish her own life. A place where she wouldn’t be simply Sarah
Fairfax’s daughter. She needed Wicklow, and from the looks of the,
place, all dust-laden and weary, it needed her too.

***

“You won’t leave me alone, will you,
Amanda?” Elizabeth, in her nightclothes, climbed into the
four-poster bed hung with rich rose-silk curtains. She had grown
calmer once inside the lovely bedroom that had belonged to Aunt
Elise. Here there was none of the Eastern influence that disturbed
Elizabeth. It was a lady’s room, done in rose satins and brocades
with yards and yards of lace and ribbon trimmings on the bed
curtains and draperies. A little cluttered perhaps, for Aunt Elise
had been a collector like Jubal Wicklow.

Amanda glanced around. The room wasn’t
exactly as she remembered. There were new things and more things,
but it was lovely nonetheless.

A candle’s soft illumination lit the room:
the pale rose-patterned wallpaper, the fat sofa with layers of
embroidered cushions, an oil painting of Aunt Elise mounted in a
heavy gilt frame, a row of delicate little china figures on the
pink marble mantel, more peacock feathers in a vase by the door,
the low dressing table with a wide silver-wrapped mirror. Once
Amanda had pulled the remaining dustcovers from the furniture,
Elizabeth looked around and acknowledged that the room was as
elegant a bedroom as Sarah Fairfax had occupied in her rented town
house in London.

The rose scent Aunt Elise had worn still
clung faintly in the air. Perhaps it always would, having over
decades permeated the walls and the fabrics. But it was a
comforting smell and made it seem as if at any moment Aunt Elise,
with her white hair and clear blue eyes, might come sweeping into
her old bedroom. How nice that would be, but how impossible, unless
there really were ghosts.

“I’ll leave a candle burning.” Amanda tucked
the covers about Elizabeth’s shoulders and bade her good night.
“I’m going to bathe and get to bed myself.”

Wearily Elizabeth mumbled a reply. Before
Amanda had closed the bedroom door, the old woman’s thin lashes
floated down like tea leaves settling to the bottom of a cup and
she was asleep. Amanda hurried away. She had found another
habitable bedroom, a plain one at the far end of the hall. She
couldn’t remember to whom it had belonged—it had been so long ago,
and details of the house were fragmented memories from a young
girl’s mind. But it didn’t really matter. The house had been closed
for months and she could take her time about selecting a room that
suited her after she had looked through the whole place. Tonight
she was so tired that any bed would be wonderful, once she had
bathed.

Crossing the narrow bedroom, Amanda began
quickly removing the blue serge traveling dress she wore. She was
glad the bedclothes here were fresh and she wouldn’t have to remake
the bed. The hem of her skirt was wet, and her petticoats, too, had
absorbed enough water to require hours to dry.

She slipped out of her chemise and carefully
spread all her garments over a chair. She had brought only a small
traveling bag upstairs. Her trunk still sat outside on the
sheltered entry of the house, and she hadn’t the fortitude to try
to bring it up herself. A blanket would serve well enough as a
dressing gown until tomorrow, when she could unpack. She stripped
one from the bed and wrapped herself in its soft, warm folds.
Gathering up her bag, Amanda pattered barefoot to the bath.

Jubal Wicklow had installed a large marble
tub in the house, the “Roman bath” as Aunt Elise had called it. The
room was a work of art and, Amanda imagined, patterned after one he
must have seen in some Eastern palace. It had a magnificent carved
cinnabar screen for dressing. One wall was entirely covered in tiny
mosaic tiles that pictured a midnight garden where cherry trees
bloomed and lilacs lined a little path. The path led to a turquoise
fountain with a silver spray of water which tumbled into a pool
filled with floating pink water lilies. To enter the room was like
being transported to a world of springtime, a world that excluded
disharmony of thought, a world where peace and beauty
prevailed.

In the dusky lamplight, Amanda ran water
from the two large urns beside the bath and heated a good supply on
a small stove in the rear of the room. She had thought of this bath
for days of travel and washing from a basin, and now, even though
the hour was late, she didn’t think she could sleep until she had
submerged her tired limbs beneath the shining mirrored surface of
the water.

The experience was worth the wait. The warm,
scented bath relaxed her. Languidly Amanda scrubbed her skin with a
bar of rose-scented soap she had found in a box, washing away the
travel dust and much of her weariness and replacing it with
mollified contentment. She splashed the thick, creamy lather away
with clear water and stretched her slender arms and legs out in the
luxuriously large bath. A rolled-up bath sheet that had been packed
away with a fragrant sachet made a soft pillow for her head. Soon
she was resting in more comfort than she had known for many
months.

A relaxed smile quivered on Amanda’s lips.
Like a flower closing soft petals for the night, her lids slowly
slipped down over misty green eyes, shutting out the mellow light
of the lamp. Yes, she thought dreamily, snuggling in the cozy
warmth of the water, she would be happy at Wicklow. She would
cherish every part. She would polish and shine the house and all
its contents back to full glory.

Softly Amanda sighed, her gentle breath
making tiny rings on the surface of the water. Everything in the
house seemed to be under a layer of dust. Perhaps Gussie was too
old to keep the house clean and in order by herself. Aunt Elise
hadn’t left enough money for the staff of servants a house this
size generally required. But Amanda had no aversion to hard work.
She loved Wicklow, really loved it.

The house was a repository for relics Jubal
Wicklow had collected from all over the world: odd little statues,
carvings, and some beautifully made chests and boxes. Albeit most
of them had no monetary value, according to Aunt Elise, she had
kept them because they had belonged to her father. Most of those
oddities Elise had stored out of sight and replaced with more
modern gewgaws of her own choosing: a few miniatures, some good
silver and porcelain, but mostly bric-a-brac. Though Amanda had
found some items she could sell for a bit of extra cash, most she
would cherish just as Jubal Wicklow and Aunt Elise had done.

The hour was late when Amanda awoke, cold,
her limbs cramped and aching. How long had she slept? The heated
water had been like a sleeping draught. Now it was icy and she was
shivering, but it was not that which had awakened her. She heard
voices and laughter. Sitting up quickly, Amanda stifled a
frightened cry. One rancorous voice echoed loudly through the hall,
the deep-timbered voice of a man. She was suddenly, horribly aware
of her nakedness and vulnerability. Cringing, she crossed her
trembling arms over her breasts and tried to think.