Elisabeth Fairchild (22 page)

Copeland watched the struggle going on in his brother’s mind, in the furrowing of
his brow, in the unusual tightness of his mouth. He could not worry him further with
the children’s accounts, and so he nodded. “Sounds daft, I know.”

“Completely.” Marcus sighed. “And has she been back?”

“Only in my dreams.”

Marcus seemed to be puzzling over something. “How did she manage?”

“Manage what?”

He drew curves in the air. “Corporeal form?”

Copeland had wondered that himself. “Not exactly sure. Something to do with the anniversary
of her death, I think.”

Skepticism stole the humor from Marcus’s voice. “Anniversaries happen every year.”

“I think she wanted revenge when she arrived. A powerful energy, revenge.”

“She does not want revenge anymore? Just to hold your heart in her hands?” Ridicule
spoiled the question.

Copeland laughed. “Sounds mad. Am I mad?”

Marcus bumped his shoulder, and with an irrepressible grin said, “As a hatter, brother
dear. As barmy as old Uncle Cope with his green clothes, and his green carriage, and
nothing but green food to eat, but we love you anyway. We and your widows and orphans,
who are planning to sing a pageant of carols for you this Christmas, have you heard?”

***

They never spoke of her again, he and Marcus. Never mentioned ghosts again, although
now and then, as they passed the portrait of Uncle Cope in the gallery, Marcus would
tap his temple and laugh. Winters came and went, and Christmases, one after another,
and Broomhill Hall hosted many a glad-hearted gathering of friends and family, including
Lord Copeland’s one hundred and one wives and children, for so everyone called the
widows and orphans he took joy in helping, so solicitous were his ways.

Broomhill Hall proved a merry old house for the holidays. It seemed Lord Copeland
was intent on making each Christmas better than the last. “The best Christmas ever,”
he was heard to insist every Yuletide Season. Each Christmas, it seemed this must
be the best Christmas ever, that one could not imagine a more entertaining gathering,
only to find the next year surpassed the last by leaps and bounds.

And while Copeland did his best to make each day, indeed each Christmas special and
meaningful, and while each night he felt himself wrapped in a wordless and unending
well of boundless and all-encompassing love, he could not help looking for the one
thing, the one person, missing in his daylight hours—most especially when he woke
to winter weather.

He could not stop himself from whispering to his dear Belinda, though she never whispered
back. He spoke to her when he thought no one else might hear—convinced her spirit
walked with him, about the house, in the chapel, by the fountain, and in the woods
where she had saved him. He was convinced she heard every word.

He was, in fact, convinced she communicated with him almost every day, in a language
without words, a language of the senses, of sight and sound and smell. He heard her
call his name in the patter of the fountain on a sunny day, in the voices of the birds
that came to feed from his hands, in the rustle and sway of the leaves in the old
oak trees. He heard her in the creak of the stairs, in the whistle of the wind in
the fireplace, in the notes he touched upon the old harpsichord, in the flight of
birds from the treetops. He saw some sign of her in the light that fell through the
chapel windows, in the door to the
Fleur-de-Lys
Room that drifted open when no one was there, as if to welcome him. He caught wind
of her, sometimes in the heat of summer, when for no discernable reason the stairwell
smelled suddenly of evergreen—of Christmas frankincense.

“Talks to himself,” the servants said. “And laughs.”

He garnered a bit of a reputation, an aging, moneyed bachelor who took no interest
in any of the women who threw themselves his way. Good to his nieces and nephews,
a philanthropist unparalleled. A favored brother, a favorite uncle, a cherished friend,
and yet, for all that, an odd, old bird.

He seemed happy enough, always smiling of a morning, and he hummed to himself whenever
he climbed the stairs to bed at night, but,
tsk-tsk
, heads and tongues wagged, “A pity he never married.”

Another winter arrived, another Christmas planned, extensive preparations made, a
long list of guests invited to share the Season with dear and slightly dotty Lord
Copeland. He knew the rumors. He had heard the gossip. He was eccentric, not deaf.

His nieces and nephews had nieces and nephews of their own now, a fresh batch of eager
young faces begging for ghost stories from great-uncle Copeland—they must not call
him Cope—he made that very clear—Uncle Kirk was fine, but not Cope, and they were
not to go skating on the pond unless he went with them—an absolute rule, that one—they
repeated it by rote when asked.

A pity, it was later said, that he was not as clear in instructing the youngest about
the pond. They had all brought their skates, expecting a freeze, and indeed it was
exceptionally cold when everyone arrived, but with so many people, so many nieces
and nephews, and grandnieces and grandnephews, along with their servants, and the
horses to be seen to, and the orphans and widows and neighbors arriving, it was no
wonder, really, that some small detail should be forgotten in the melee.

It was believed by now that everyone knew the history of the pond, of how Lord Copeland
had been rescued as a child, how his brother had drowned. Who would have imagined
that any of the lads would think to go skating without permission, without great-uncle
Copeland’s express permission? No one realized Henry had gone untold—too young to
know the stories.

Copeland woke to another day, a fresh miracle. He lay a moment in the warm cocoon
of his bed, wrapped in the fading traces of the dream, her arms fading away, the comforting
cradle of her ghostly arms.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes and listened to the creaking of the glass in the window
frames, the stretch and pull of windblown frosted panes.

Icicles hung from the roofline. He must smile at their dagger-bright sparkle. The
lads had brought their skates. They wanted the pond to freeze. He had promised to
take them all skating today unless the sun came out.

He rose from the bed, not as agile as he had once been, not a young man any more,
and yet to rise each morning, even if it stirred a little pain, was a gift, her gift,
every day more precious than the last, more of a quiet miracle than he had ever believed
possible.

He went to the window in nightshirt and cap, to look for the sun, to look for footprints
in the frost upon the ground, Uncle Cope running past the
fleur-de-lys
stained glass yet again toward the pond. Belinda’s bride’s chest sat at the foot
of the bed. Opened only at Christmas, he always brought her fresh mistletoe, a freshly
plaited red-and-white paper heart, and a tiny vial of frankincense. Opening up the
lid to an almost overpoweringly potent smell of her, of the Christmas that was a part
of him forever, he took out the old bough from the year before, leaves falling to
powder, berries withered, the paper heart curling at the edges, and thought,
Here is our love fresh and new again, my dear.

He stood at the window afterward, breath fogging the pane, his gaze fixed on a long-distant
past, his mind beyond caring that there were footprints on the frosted ground, as
he had suspected there would be, and following them, morning sunshine glittering on
the skates slung about his neck, the youngest of his grandnephews.

But at last, movement and light caught his eyes, caught his breath, and he banged
on the windowpane at once and cried out, “Henry! Is that you, lad? Where do you think
you are going?”

The boy walked on, unheeding, unable to hear, bundled as he was in his winter woolens.

“Dear God!” Copeland grabbed up his quilted velvet dressing gown and thrust his arms
into it as he dashed for the door. “Not again. By all that is holy. Not again!”

Down the stairs he charged, shouting, “Marcus! Theodore! Lads! Bless me, where are
you?”

Sleep-tousled heads popped from the doorways of the bedchambers he passed, but only
dear old Bolton was up and about, as much as he could stand up, at any rate. Time
had taken a toll on his once proud posture. They met on the landing of the stairs,
Bolton going up, Copeland racing down. “Fetch Marcus, and the boys!” Copeland rushed
past his most trusted friend in a whirl of flapping nightshirt and floor-length dressing
gown. “Henry has gone to the pond!”

“To the pond, my lord?” Bolton leaned over the banister to shout, hard of hearing,
the old man.

Without breaking stride Copeland shouted back at him. “To skate! Lord help us, to
skate!”

Through the side door Copeland burst, into the chill morning, breath pluming white.
Drawing his dressing gown about his chest, he set out in the direction of the pond,
slippers soon soaked from the frost in the grass, this dressing gown hem faring much
the same.

He thought of his Uncle Cope as he ran, kicking up spurts of snow in his wake, breath
rasping, the air so cold it ached in his chest. It gave him strength to think of Cope,
dear Cope, who had saved him, as he would—must—save Henry.

The world blurred as he ran, a bright, sunlit whiteness in the periphery of his vision,
his focus intent, absolute, on the set of footprints he followed, on the dark glitter
of the pond ahead, fringed in a spiked thatch of winter-browned reeds, the child not
there, no movement on the bank, the stillness heart-sinking.

And then, his childhood come to haunt him, there it was, a splash of water, the reach
of a hand, and the open-mouthed horror of a child’s face bobbing momentarily to the
surface, with a panicked gasp for air, before it slipped beneath the roiling surface
of icy water once again.

He raced now, against time, against the cold, against his own limitations, his breath
coming in ragged gasps, his body moving as if propelled by an unseen hand, with all
the speed and purpose within him.

He threw himself onto the ice, knowing it would break beneath the weight of him, ready
for the shock of the water, so cold it took all breath away, and yet he did not stop,
or waste energy on utterances, or doubt. He simply plunged himself into the water
where the boy had gone under, and grabbed unerringly at what looked like dead leaves,
knowing it was not leaves at all but Henry’s hair, and then he had hold of his wool
muffler, and an arm that flailed as he drew the sodden weight of the boy in all his
winter woolens up out of the murk, and the lad was he, sputtering, and spitting water,
and clutching with utter desperation, to his Uncle Cope’s hand, the years overlapping,
the moments inextricably connected, and there was Uncle Cope’s face, profoundly concerned,
elated with success. He looked down into Henry’s fear-widened eyes, his own eyes looking
back at him from wide, black pupils.

Copeland’s heart beat like madness—no, not madness—joy! He had never felt such a thumping
tympani of celebration, of success. A near miss, disaster averted! The miracle rushed
through him in a wave of renewed strength. He shoved the lad toward shore, slippers
lost in the mud, and it did not matter, nothing mattered but this life saved, this
lad who would achieve manhood, this shuddering, shivering, blue-lipped lad. His nightshirt
and dressing gown tangled wetly about legs going numb with the cold, as his own teeth
chattered uncontrollably, distorting his laughter, for Copeland found himself laughing
with overwhelming glee, in having saved the boy, just as he had been saved.

They came running from the house, Marcus, and his lads, grown men now, the footmen
shouting, he supposed they were shouting, from the puffs of white that came from moving
mouths, but he could not hear them properly, everything muffled and distant, even
the noise of his breathing. His arm was numb, fingers tingling from the shoulder down,
a strange sensation, as was the way he could not seem to catch his breath. Too cold.
He was much too cold for this heated rush of joy.

He reached for his vial of tonic as they came running to help the child, to wrap him
in their coats. They bundled him in their excitement, fear in their voices, fear and
relief in uneasy laughter, as they reached out to help him from the pond, and Copeland
was happy, so very happy—had never known such joy, such unadulterated joy. It filled
him like mulled wine, his heart light, so very light, singing, as the wind in the
reeds was singing, a song he remembered—a melancholy tune she had sung that Christmas—a
song from Man—a haunting song from Man, and he had to laugh, for there was no vial
to be had, not so much as a pocket for it in his sodden velvet dressing gown.

A gift. It had been a gift. And here before him was gift as well. The best gift possible.
The best gift imaginable. The best Christmas ever, he thought, knowing that everything
had ended well, turned out right, nothing to spoil the holiday. He had only to get
warm, to take another breath, to grab the hand that reached for him.

Strong that grasp—familiar. And there was his Uncle Cope again, lifting him, him and
all of the weight of dripping wet woolens, but not Cope, it was Marcus and his eldest
son who clasped his hand, their grip like iron, the weight of the velvet enormous.
Too heavy. Too heavy to breathe. The grip on his hand tightened, and yet it was not
Marcus at all, for in looking down he saw the white of her gown, spotless despite
the mud. It was not his brother who pulled him from the water. It was she, and dear
Uncle Cope, in a sudden burst of the smell of evergreen—of Christmas frankincense.

He clasped their hands and leapt from the pond like a younger man, his clothes dry
now, blowing in the wind, dressing gown coattails flapping.

She laughed, the sound, the sensation of that laughter going through him, as she had
gone through him, so many nights, for so many years. She smiled, and wrapping herself
about him, squeezed herself closer, so that the very edges of them blended and overlapped.
“You wanted to live, more than anything. It was my Christmas gift to you to grant
that wish, no matter how difficult I found it to wait.”