Elisabeth Fairchild (16 page)

Gabriel turned his head, ears perked. Copeland turned to look as well, hoping she
had changed her mind, hoping she would join him in a glass of sherry. He so enjoyed
her company.

Bolton must have read his disappointment, for he said quietly, “Do I interrupt your
thoughts, my lord? If so, tomorrow’s wine list can wait.”

“I was just thinking of the game of hide-and-seek.” Copeland held out his hand for
the list.

“Ah, yes, the Mistletoe Bride.” Bolton came closer. “Appropriate, given the time of
year.”

Copeland set aside his wine glass, puzzled. “Who?”

“One of our resident ghosts, my lord. Have you not heard the tale?”

Copeland motioned to a chair. “Pray sit and tell me.”

Bolton obliged him in perching, his knees creaking as much as the chair. “We have
had the tale from Davidson, our pastry chef, so I cannot vouch for its veracity, my
lord, but he is a local, and claims it is God’s truth, this tale of one of the more
colorful spirits who is said to haunt Broomhill Hall.”

“Of course. Who is this bride, then?”

“Well, my lord, Davidson claims the ghost of a young woman in white is often to be
seen about the Hall, carrying a sprig of mistletoe.”

An image of Belinda Walcott standing in the entryway, a sprig of mistletoe in hand,
flashed through Copeland’s mind. He smiled, wondering if she knew the story.

“Mistletoe? Have any of the staff backed up this claim?”

“Well, my lord, when Maddie heard Davidson’s tale she gave a gasp, and claimed she
had seen just such a female in the
Fleur-de-Lys
Room one morning as she carried in fresh linen. Said she had gone so far as to speak
to the figure, who stood at the window, so real did she appear. But then she brushed
it off as a trick of the light, for no sooner had she spoken than the figure was gone.”

“My guest mentions no such phantom.”

Bolton moved forward in the chair, his perch most precarious, his look one of concern.
“I have heard no additional complaints,” he said carefully.

“Hmmm. I must ask her if she has seen this woman in white. There was a day when I
looked up at the windows of the house and thought I saw a woman standing in the
Fleur-de-Lys
Room. The day Maddie broke the pitcher. Do you remember? The same day our guest arrived?”

The lines above Bolton’s brow deepened. “The very day Maddie mentioned seeing the
apparition herself, my lord. You may recall asking me why she seemed so frightened
on the stairs.”

“Hide-and-seek,” Copeland muttered. “These ghosts play hide-and-seek with us, Bolton.”

“Funny you should say so, my lord.”

“How so?”

“You see, the Mistletoe Bride is said to have been engaged in a game of hide-and-seek
with her husband in pursuit, on her wedding day.”

“Oh?” The hair at the back of Copeland’s neck prickled.

“It seems the poor bride hid in her own wedding chest, my lord, and that it had, most
regrettably, a catch that could only be sprung from the outside.”

“Dear God!” he whispered, the dream rising to mind, the dream of a chest at the end
of his bed. He waggled the bruised toe.

Bolton went on with the story, his tone bland as toast. “Davidson claims her bereaved
husband found her too late, a corpse dressed in bride’s clothes, clutching her sprig
of mistletoe. It was Christmastime. She is always seen at Christmastime.”

“She died here? Upstairs?” Copeland’s pulse was racing. His hand rose to press the
flat of his chest bone, checking the beat.

“Yes, my lord.” So calm he sounded. “So goes the story.”

Copeland stared at the creatures who held up the mantel. He knew now why they smiled,
why they looked past him.

“Have there been many weddings here at Broomhill?” he asked.

Chapter Twenty-Two

He dreamed of her again, his ghostly lover, a dream so real he would have sworn an
oath it was real, she was real, but for the fact that he could not move his lips to
speak.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, recalling the tale of the Mistletoe Bride. Bolton’s
voice flatly droned the words in his mind, and as he imagined her dreadful end she
entered the room in a waft of cold air, and the sudden sense that he was not alone,
and that someone approached the bed.

Copeland shivered, curled up his toes beneath the weight of the covers, and tried
to turn, to face the drifting odor of evergreens, to see his mysterious visitor face
on, in the flesh—or not—whichever the case might be.

As before, his limbs would not obey his command. He seemed locked in a state of heightened
awareness, with limited mobility.

With a whoosh of air, what he now believed to be the Mistletoe Bride lifted the covers
behind him, sliding into the bed, her presence weighing down the feather mattress,
the frankincense scent of her fingering his nose. She was there, and yet not there.
How else to describe it? Slowly, gently, with growing warmth, she insinuated her body
to his—the evergreen odor filling his head, the heat of her invigorating yet lulling.
Half awake, half dreaming, cocooned in the warmth of the bed linens, clutching them
tighter, he waited, heart pounding, pulse racing, unable to calm himself. Too extraordinary
this sensation, too wonderful to in any way deny it, deny himself, and at the same
time terrifying as she surrounded him in warmth, aroused, blissful, his awareness
on the edge of wakefulness, soaking into his bones, his skin, his very heart.

Even tinged with fear, his chest swelled with joy, a feeling like springtime, like
moonlight, like Christmas morning.

Love,
he thought.
This is love. I am wrapped in love, embraced by love. She reaches into the heart and
soul of me with the sweetest of emotions.

A swirling warmth passed over every inch of him, like the lightest touch of hands,
like soft lips seeking, like the trailing brush of silken hair. A whisper of love
sounded in his ears and yet he could not make out the voice, the words. Or was it
music? The distant strains of a violin, high and pulsing? His body pulsed with need,
heart and desire. He strained to hear, strained to move or turn, that he might settle
more deeply into those beloved arms, into the heated silken pull of her.

And as easily as the thought came to him he did turn, sinking, enfolded. His mouth
seemed filled with the sweetest honey, his limbs flexed against a silken heat, his
heart seemed ready to explode. Certainly his body poised on the verge.

She was flesh and bone, and yet not. He was awake, and yet sleeping. He seemed to
float above his own body, his mind at the same time removed from all physical sensation
and yet completely immersed in the driving lope of his heartbeat, breath ragged in
his ears.

Every inhalation made a tearing sound, a wonderfully intimate rending of the essence
of life, his heart at a breathtaking gallop, chest rising and falling. Surging and
cresting, surf upon the sand, he was floating, flying, higher than he had ever climbed,
deeper than he had ever plunged, into a bottomless pool of light and color. The throb
of his heartbeat quickened. Heat and light and color swelled in him with a sensation
that he had never before experienced, a coming together of all that was within him,
every feeling, every thought in some way wiped clean of doubt and fear. All that was
negative disappeared. Love tingled in every cell. Every inch of skin sang with newfound
voice.

He wondered, with a strangely removed feeling of all-encompassing bliss,
Is this death? Am I dying?

High on the wave of joy he rode, enfolding himself in it, happy as he had never before
known happiness, content all the way down to the depths of his soul. He did not know
where she began and he ended. They became one for endless ecstatic moments of pure
light and laughter, a single being, linked in body, thought, purpose, intent, and
need. It was as if her soul opened up to him, as if their hearts beat as one, as if
they saw through the same pair of eyes, breathing the same breath, lost in a glowing
haze of warmth and pleasure.

Was this the Mistletoe Bride, come to lie with him? Did a young woman who had never
known the pleasures of marriage bend her noncorporeal form to his in this electrifying
manner?

His hair stood on end. His heart galloped like a race horse. He listened for her breath,
her voice, a sigh.

Who are you?
His brain resounded with the question, and yet he could not force a single sound from
his lips.
What do you want?
And as suddenly as her presence had filled the room, as completely as he had been
wrapped in warmth, he was now chilled, feet like blocks of ice, arms covered in gooseflesh.

She was gone.

Limbs loosened, his voice returned in a heartfelt groan. He rolled over and stared
into the darkness, shaken to the very core of his soul, shivering head to toe. He
felt no sense of her, none at all, only a residual frisson of fear and longing. The
room, the hollowed spot beside him in the bedclothes, was a void, a dark emptiness
that swallowed all his former happiness.

What just happened?

He could not reconcile dream with reality, could not fit his feelings, his physical
sensation into the understandable.

Was it nothing but a dream?

He rose to fling open the curtains, to allow light in the darkness of his understanding.
He strode to the door and opened it wide, listening for fleeing footsteps, for the
creak of floorboards. Nothing to see. No one stirred but he.

Dressing gown flapping, he added wood to the fire and straightened tangled bedclothes.
He poured himself a nip of brandy, let the heat of it bloom in the depths of his stomach,
climbed once more into cooled sheets.

At last he sank head upon the pillow, warmth returning to feet and fingers, his mind
moving in endless circles that made no sense. He sighed a heartfelt sigh, a sigh of
resignation in the realization he might never understand this night—these dreams—what
it was he had seen and done.

And then he buried his face in the pillow, and brought the bedcovers sailing up about
his shoulders, and his eyes went wider than ever, for in the bed, pressed between
bedclothes and pillow, mingled with the scent of musk and evergreens, he found another
withered mistletoe berry.

***

Christmas Eve dawned still and white, no more snow falling. The sun peeped streaks
of brilliance through the clouds. Belinda sat beside the stained-glass window, staring
at a changed world through the blue and yellow
fleur-de-lys
, chin in hand.

Icicles dripped and sparkled in the trees and along the rooftop. Like her time here—melting
away. Drip. Yellow. Drip. Blue. Drip.

Odd how much a weak show of sun could lower her spirits—reminding her that now the
roads would be clear, her host no longer snowbound.

He was not hers. She had no right to lay claim on any man. Never had. Not even on
her wedding night.

With a sigh she turned her back on the brightness and went down a quiet stairway and
entered the breakfast room to find it empty, no places laid, the sideboard vacant.
For a moment she stood astounded, wondering if the house was enchanted, like a fairy
tale in which all souls had been whisked away.

The stillness reminded her of her own emptiness, the years alone. She drew her shawl
closer about her shoulders and marveled at the brightness of sunshine on glittering
snow through the windows. A flurry of sparrows winged past, chittering, disturbed
by a black bird, stark against the white. With a harsh caw, he settled in a swaying
branch, feathers fluffed.

The same dripping sound she had heard from upstairs permeated the room, the noise
louder, more persistent this close to the ground.

And then she saw the note upon the table, and heard laughter, from a distance, behind
closed doors.

Come to the kitchen,
the note read.

Uncertain, as if she strayed into forbidden territory, she followed the laughter down
the hallway, and through the dining room into the sweet smell of ginger, cinnamon,
nutmeg, and cloves. In the butler’s pantry she paused, peeping into the kitchen, the
outsider who did not belong to this warm scene of holiday antics.

It seemed the entire staff gathered about the long oak table, Copeland wearing a paper
crown and holding a chair for one of the maids, who giggled as he handed her a napkin
with a flourish, as if he were the underbutler.

Cook approached, bearing a tray of hot cross buns studded with currants, and the man
she had come to love whirled and said, “No, no, now. You must sit and allow me to
serve you. It is the law of Misrule this morning, and I am Lord of it.”

The staff made pleased noises as he pulled out Cook’s chair with one hand and bore
aloft the buns with the other. He deposited the tray centrally among them with a smile,
and fetched a steaming pot from the range, and cups, and crocks of butter and honey
from the larder. And then they begged him:

“Come!”

“Sit!”

“Join us.”

They would not eat without him, and the oatmeal was getting cold.

No one noticed her standing in the shadow of the door.

It was a familiar feeling. She did not belong here. She was not part of this. Here
was time-honored Christmas tradition between master and servant, and she had no place
in it, no place in
this
Lord Copeland’s life at all.

She turned to go, tears welling, and bumped the door. It swung wider with a moan of
the hinge.

“’Ooo’s that, then?” Cook looked up, spoon halfway to her mouth. “I thought we was
all here.”

“Bit of a draft, is it?” The underbutler turned to look.

Lord Copeland’s gaze met hers, a beautiful smile making the dimples dance, warming
his eyes with welcome. “There you are!” he said. “Come in. Come in, my dear.”

All conversation died away. The clank and clatter of cutlery halted. Every head at
the table turned first in her direction, then in his, before they flew into motion.

“’is guest!” Maddie whispered to the maids. “Squeeze down, girls. We’ve gone and forgotten
’is guest.” With a great screeching of chair legs on stone flooring, they obliged,

“I do apologize, my lord,” Bolton rose.

“The dining room was empty,” Belinda said uncertainly.

Copeland leapt up. “Did no one tell you to come to the kitchen? This morning I play
Lord of Misrule and serve the servants.”

Maddie protested. “I did stick my head in the door to the
Fleur-de-Lys
, my lord. And left a note upon the table.”

Belinda said quietly, “I found your note.”

The Lord of Misrule waved and bowed Belinda toward his chair. “I shall just get another
plate. Do you prefer buns or porridge for breakfast, my lady?”

The scullery maid asked the cook just loud enough that Belinda heard as she passed
them. “Does he take after his uncle, then?”

Cook frowned and whispered, “It is common practice among some folk to make room for
one more at the table this time of year.”

The pastry chef leaned forward with a sniff. “Wonderful smell. The greenery fills
the whole house with the sweet smell of the outdoors.”

Copeland came banging in the doorway with the chair, and a great noisy business was
made of settling it. He made Belinda feel welcome with a plateful of food and fresh
cutlery. Conversation around the table resumed. The clatter of a breakfast well enjoyed
ensued with enthusiasm. Copeland led the staff in the singing of a Christmas carol
she had never heard before, for “By the laws of misrule the music teacher must be
taught a bit of music,” he said.

Belinda saw the sly sideways glances, heard the whispered jibes. She saw, even if
he did not, how little they wanted to sing the song for her, that they did it for
his sake—because he was their lord and master, because they loved him.

She sat with a forced smile, feeling awkward—out of place. More than anything she
wanted to run from the room, from the house, run and run, and run. But she had nowhere
to run to, so she stayed, mouth aching with false smiles, for him, only for him.

Now, more than ever, she knew that she must go.