Christmas Yet to Come (6 page)

“Hide.” His voice was no more than a released breath.

“I'm not leaving you,” she whispered. The door crashed open.

“They don't need to know there's two people here!”

Without wasting any more time, she bolted for the only place of concealment. The sideboard was beside the parlor door, and she crouched on its farther side, pressed against it. Anyone who had come for her would not have been dissuaded by that—but anyone who had come for her would not have needed to break through the front door.

Justin caught up the poker, but even as he did so, heavy footsteps stopped outside the parlor door. More than one of them, she realized.

She looked through the small gap between the back of the sideboard and the wall, but all she saw was a man's hand—with a gun in it. A thumb pressed down a tiny, jutting part of the weapon with a metallic click-snap.

“Put that down,” the man said. The poker clattered to the hearth, and Justin raised his hands slowly.

The temperature was falling fast, but it wasn't why she shivered. She wondered if anyone would see the open front door and realize something was wrong, but the clock showed a quarter to midnight. No chance anyone would simply be passing by at that hour—and anyone who was, and who intervened, might be killed too.

“What do you want?” Justin didn't look away from whoever stood in the doorway. She pressed her nails into her palms. There were two glasses and two plates on the table.

“We don't like doing this, but times are hard,” a second man said. “You keep enough scratch to go around?”

Laura wasn't sure what that meant, but Justin nodded as if he'd heard it before. “There's a safe upstairs,” he said. “Would you two gentlemen care to wait?”

The first voice chuckled, without humor. “No, guv'nor. We'll be coming up, if it's all the same to you.”

“By all means,” Justin said. There was a soft scraping sound, as if something had been dragged along the surface of the sideboard, and Justin walked out. Laura breathed a little easier. Intent on the robbery, the strangers hadn't noticed the table, and now she knew how many of them there were. Justin's invitation to stay downstairs had probably made them that much more intent on following him, away from her. But what could she do?

No point in sneaking out and trying to get help—not at that hour, and she'd never be back in time, before the robbers murdered Justin. And she knew they would do so, after he opened the safe which had to be in his bedroom.

Sooner than let that happen, she would do anything.

She slipped her shoes off, ignoring the cold floor against her bare feet. Her hand closed around the handle of the poker, warm from Justin's grip, and she stole to the parlor door.

Justin was halfway up the stairs. The two robbers were only a few steps behind, and the one directly behind Justin held a candelabrum he'd clearly taken off the sideboard. The three candles flickered with the draught that swept through the house, and threw distorted shadows against the wall. She saw the barrel of the gun.

Just as she'd thought, the man behind Justin held the weapon in his free hand, so he wouldn't risk accidentally shooting his friend if Justin tried to run. She wasn't sure if the second man was armed as well.

But it didn't matter. Picking up her skirts with one hand so they wouldn't rustle, she slipped out and reached the foot of the stairs. She glided up them as fast as she could.

A chilling breeze swept through the hall. One of the candles flickered out.

The second man turned. Whether he'd heard her or seen the edge of her shadow, he spun around and his hand came up, clutching a hammer. But the poker gave her more of a reach. She swung it in a swift arc that ended at the man's kneecap.

There was a sharp crack. He screamed, reeled sideways and caught at the banister. Shadows wheeled as the man holding the candelabrum jerked out of the way, putting his back to the wall. The injured man caught at the poker, but before he could yank it out of her hand, Justin sprang down two steps and slammed a fist into the side of his jaw.

The grip on the other end of the poker went nerveless. The man crumpled, tumbling down the length of the staircase until he landed in a heap on the floor.

Thunder cracked, magnified as it echoed from the walls. Justin staggered and fell across the stairs. Smoke clouded the air, but she still saw the barrel of the pistol turn in her direction.

Another flame blew out as if cold unseen fingers had closed on it.

Laura swung the poker out with all her strength. The man swept the candelabrum down to block, and iron rang off brass so hard it made her stagger. The impact sent vibrations racing up her arms.

A glowing light whirred at her. The candelabrum smashed into the arm she flung up, and the world went white. Laura stumbled back, almost losing her balance. She dropped the poker—which clattered down the steps—and caught the banister just in time.

Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she blinked the tears of pain from her eyes. The man came at her again, swinging the candelabrum like a club, and the last flame winked out. She ducked. In the darkness, the candelabrum whished over her head. Then she was scrambling up the steps on hands and knees.

The man cursed and spun around. All but blind in the dark, she bolted up and ran for her room. The shroud, if she could get to the shroud—

Footfalls raced behind her. She flung the door open and dashed in—straight into an unyielding solidity that hit her hard across the face and sent her sprawling to the floor. The bedpost, she guessed through a daze as she rolled away, trying to collect her senses.

If the robber had run in, they might both have ended up on the floor. Instead he stopped in the doorway, and she heard a soft rattle followed by a scratch. A match flared. He'd set the candelabrum down on her dresser, and now he lit a single candle before he slipped the matchbox back into a pocket. He clicked back the hammer on his pistol, but rather than pointing it at her and firing, he pulled a steel flask from a pocket and pushed the flask's spout into the barrel.

Reloading, she realized as her heart slammed against her ribs.

“You know how to open the safe?” he said. A handful of round bullets fell and went skittering over the floor, and he cursed again.

Laura held the bedpost with her good arm and pulled herself up. She had never felt so much pain, but the raw ache in her chest was worse. He wouldn't have asked her that if Justin had been alive.

“Yes,” she managed to say. She thought of grabbing up anything she could and attacking him, but even without a reloaded gun, he was bigger and taller than she was.

Instead she turned and made a dive for the wardrobe door.

The man shouted wordlessly and came after her. She threw the door open, and her hands closed on worn cloth the color of smoke over snow. As she spun towards the wall, she wrenched the shroud off its nail. It ripped, but one more tear made no difference. She flung it over her head, and it slithered down like a second skin an instant before she hit the wall.

She went through brick and plaster as if those had been eggshells, and caught herself just before she could hit the floor again. Moonlight streamed in through the open curtains, and at first all she registered was a figure leaning against the wall nearby. She heard hoarse breathing.

Then her eyes adapted and she saw Justin.

She was at his side at once, and he leaned against her for a moment before he clutched at the wall again. Even that brief contact was enough for blood to soak through the shroud.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

“Oh good, I hoped that was convincing.” But each word was raw and hoarse, spoken with an effort. “Laura—gun. Lowest drawer. Oh, damn.” His voice caught. “It's not loaded.”

“Doesn't matter.” It would take too long for him to explain how, and the man might finish reloading his. She yanked the drawer open and felt with her good arm, tossing out any clothes in the way. Her fingers closed around the cool hard grip.

“Laura.” Her name was almost drowned in his quick breathing. “What are you—”

She was out of his bedroom at once, padding barefoot to the next door. Carefully she pushed it open. The first thing she saw was the man, gun in one hand, passing the palm of his other hand over the blank wall.

“Put that down,” she said.

He whirled around, but as she had guessed, he hadn't had time to reload. Not with trying to figure out how she had disappeared. His gaze dropped—whether to her gun or the blood spreading over the shroud, she wasn't sure, except he looked even more shaken.

“All right,” he said. “No need to panic. We can settle this nicely.” Knees bending, he set his gun on the floor beside him. “But how did you—”

“Take off your clothes.”

He started to smile. “Well, if it's that you want—”

“Take off your clothes.” As he had done earlier with his weapon, she put her thumb on the jutting hammer and pressed with all her strength. The little tongue of metal slid back with a snapping click.

He glanced around the room as if searching for anything that would help him, and shrugged. “Mind if I sit?” Perching himself on the edge of her bed, he tugged off his boots.

Laura watched as he took both off, then peeled off his socks. “Sure you don't want to join me?” he said as he stood, then pulled off his coat.

“Why not?” Without moving the gun, she forced her other arm to lift enough to rip the shroud off. A sharp stab drove all the way up to her shoulder, and an involuntary grimace pulled her lips back from her teeth as she dropped the shroud.

The man didn't even seem to have seen that. He stared at the mirror instead, and from the corner of her eye she saw what was in it. The candleflame, the hairbrush, herself, everything was drowned in a dark void. Distorted shapes moved through the nothingness, as though creatures trapped behind a black velvet drape were struggling to break out.

“Hurry!” she said. “Take your clothes off before I let that kill us both.”

The man's breathing was audible—until a biting cold wind hissed out of the mirror. His eyes widened until the whites were visible. He pulled his shirt over his head, tore at his belt, and unbuttoned his trousers before pushing them off his hips.

Laura dared a glance at the mirror. The glass rippled and pulsed as though it had turned to water. There was no clock in the room, but she guessed it was perhaps a minute to midnight.

“Everything!” she screamed.

The man jerked as if she had shot him. “I'll freeze!”

“We'll die.”

Either that or her tone must have convinced him, because he shoved his underclothes down. The gun barrel shook minutely before her and she realized her hand was trembling.

“Quick,” she said. “Put that on.”

“Put what on?”

She tried to point with her other arm, which felt too sore to bend at all. The most she could do was a twitch of the entire limb in the right direction. “The shroud.”

The moment she said it, she knew she had made a mistake. The man's face tightened, as though he was now more afraid of obeying her than of whatever was in the mirror. But he nodded jerkily and bent down.

Then he grabbed his pistol and flung it at her. She jerked aside reflexively and the pistol crashed into the mirror, splitting it. The candle hissed out.

In the dark, footfalls thudded across the floor. She threw herself flat, but rolled towards the sound. The man's legs struck her body, and he had been moving so fast that he sprawled clear of her.

Laura dropped her pistol and bolted towards the pile of clothes. Behind her she heard the man struggling to his feet as well.

But she didn't need light to find the shroud; the feel of it under her fingers was familiar. She snatched it up, turned and flung it over the man as he came at her.

Light shot out of the mirror, blinding as if all the full moon had been compressed into the one split that snaked across the glass. In the white glow, no face showed beneath the cowl of the shroud that stood before her. Only an infinite abyss.

Slowly, the new ghost turned towards the mirror, towards the eternity of its existence, and passed like a mist into the glass. Slowly, the crack sealed itself up and the light faded, leaving her alone in the quiet dark.

Panting, still shivering, she fumbled for the man's trousers until she found his matches. Then she struck one, lit the candle and hurried into the next room—the long way around—for Justin.

Epilogue

One Year Later

“Don't the paper flowers look a little…well, economical?” Justin glanced over his shoulder to check, and climbed down off the chair.

“You mean cheap?” Laura asked. “Whether they do or not, I like them.”

He smiled as he dusted the chair's seat off. Then he took it back to the kitchen, where the oven glowed warm and the cook, Mrs. Rowe, was stirring a kettle of mulled wine on the stove.

With his house becoming a great deal more cheerful over the season, both she and the maid had been more willing to stay, especially when Justin paid them extra. And the fact that he'd invited colleagues over made a difference too. No one would be able to say the Wellands—and by extension, their household help—had provided less than a delightful dinner party.

Laura had finished putting the final touches to the centerpiece in the dining room, and he paused in the doorway to watch her. She wore a tea gown in green velvet with a hint of creamy lace at the throat and cuffs, like a closed rosebud that showed only an edge of petal. The long auburn hair was pinned up now, but it still caught glints of light from the candles.

If the servants all seemed to realize there was something slightly unusual about her, they also knew that she had saved his life. After he'd been shot, he had managed to fashion a crude bandage by the time Laura had hurried back into his room with a candle. Seeing her alive and safe had done wonders for his heart, if not his constitution.

Ben was the next to arrive, since he'd heard the gunshot. He gaped at Laura, probably recognizing the maid's dress, until she sent him downstairs to close the front door and drag something heavy in front of it. Then she helped Justin into bed while Ben lugged more coal upstairs and built up a fire in his room.

Justin tried to sit up and thought better of it when the pain made him in danger of passing out for real. Laura was steady as a rock beneath his feet, but at the same time, he knew a few more things about getting along in the world than she did, which meant he needed to stay conscious long enough to tell her what to say when the constables put in an appearance.

She brought up a pot of very strong tea, sent Ben down to finish restoring order to the house, and told Justin what she'd done with the robber. “Now he's the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, so I think I'm stuck here.”

Good
, he thought as he finished his tea and leaned back against the pillows. Maybe she had been sent here not just for his second chance, but for her own. “I—uh, take it the other one was injured?”

Laura said nothing. She only looked at him over the delicate rim of the china cup, the firelight throwing her features into sharp relief.

He wasn't sure how someone who could be so caring towards him could also be so icily pragmatic, but that would be one of the intriguing things about having her with him for years to come—perhaps even for the rest of their lives. There would always be hidden depths and unseen sides to her.

“Burn those clothes he left behind,” he said. “And, by the way, you're my second cousin from Eastbourne. You arrived here via railway, uh, yesterday afternoon.” He'd have to remember to let Ben know, but the coachman had been in his service for years, and wasn't likely to give him away.

“Would you have sent the servants away if you had to entertain a guest?” Laura asked.

“Depends on the guest.” He thought the constables might understand that, especially if he expressed it in a knowing-wink, man-of-the-world way. “Sadly, your purse and jewelry were both stolen by the man with the gun, who fled the house.”

That might explain why the man had run, and would ensure she wasn't expected to produce a ticket stub as proof she'd traveled here. By then, it was past one in the morning, and he was exhausted. Laura said she would stay with him in case he needed anything, and Justin's last thought before he finally let go was that he could get very used to her sleeping in his bed, tucked close against him.

Ben drove out for the doctor before dawn, and by Boxing Day, everything was slowly returning to normal. The constables accepted his explanation of the events, and it didn't hurt that the two men were wanted for robbing a few other houses. Any lack of detail on Laura's part was probably put down to her being traumatized from the experience.

The doctor insisted on Justin having a month's bed rest, but he felt more than well enough after three weeks of that to propose to Laura. She asked what had taken him so long, and they were married shortly afterwards.

Now it was their second Christmas together, so different from the first—not just because four of Justin's friends were expected for supper and to spend Christmas Day with them. The house was decorated with ivy and pine boughs and holly knotted with ribbon as red as its berries. Laura had filled wooden bowls with sugarplums and gingerbread. Firelight glimmered off the cutlery, making polished steel look almost like silver. She studied the centerpiece and added an extra candle.

“It looks fine.” Justin straightened up from where he had leaned against the door. She was as lovely as she was fearless, but she was always aware that she didn't have any real history or background, and she tended to be careful around other people in consequence, making certain nothing gave her away. But neither of them needed or wanted to make a grand splash in society, so they'd start in small ways, taking those steps together. He held out an arm and drew her into an embrace when she came to him. She felt warm and supple against him, the grey eyes already soft as she tilted her head up.

“Do you know what the mistletoe means?” he asked.

Laura blinked. “Of course.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn't think you'd ever seen any before.”

“I read, you know.” She leveled a look that dared him to underestimate her again. “So I went out this morning and cut a little more.”

Justin couldn't remember seeing any more mistletoe. “Where is it?”

Her lips curved. “Above our bed.”

“Of course.” He smiled back.

“And the sofa.”

“Wait, did you put one up in each place—”

“And your desk.”

“Apparently so.”

“But then I ran out.”

Justin laughed, and as her arms went up around him, he made a mental note for more mistletoe next year. Then he lowered his head for her kiss.