The Ghost (11 page)

On the morning of Christmas Eve, he stood at his bedroom window, looking at the view, and he felt melancholy as he remembered back to other Christmases. Only a year before, he reminded himself, he'd been with her. And he sighed as he turned away from the window.

But his first night in his new home had gone very smoothly. There had been no problems, no odd sounds, and he smiled at the ghost stories Mrs. Palmer had told him her son had teased them all with, and his claim that he'd actually seen Sarah. Charlie was still fascinated with her, and wanted to know everything he could about her. He had already promised himself to go to the local library, and the historical society, right after Christmas. He wanted to read everything he could about Sarah and Francois, he was anxious to learn everything there was to know about them.

And although Shelburne Falls was obviously a quiet little place, for Charlie, there was a lot to do here. He had bought a sketch pad and some pens and pastels and he was itching to get out and do some drawing. He had already sketched the house several times, just playing with some ideas, and he had made quick drawings of it from several angles. It was amazing even to him how much he loved it. And Gladys Palmer was thrilled to hear it when he drove by to visit.

When he came to have dinner with her on Christmas Eve, he found three of her friends visiting her, and when they left, all he could do was talk about the house. He had already discovered several hidden cabinets, and what he thought was a secret cupboard, and he was dying to get into the attic. He sounded like a boy to her, and she laughed as he rattled on, and she listened.

And what do you think you're going to find there? she teased. A ghost? Her jewels? A letter from her to Francois? Or perhaps a letter to you? Now, that would be something! She couldn't resist playing with him. It made her happy to be able to share her love of the house with someone. All her life she had gone there to look and think and dream. It had always been the place where she had gone to find comfort. And when Jimmy died, she had spent a lot of quiet afternoons there. And she had done the same again after she lost Roland. Going there had always helped her. It was as though Sarah's benevolent presence eased her anguished spirit.

I wish I could find a drawing of her somewhere. I would love to know what she looked like. You said you saw a sketch of her once, he reminded his new friend. She had bestowed the greatest gift of all on him, her trust along with the gem of a chateau that had been built by Fran+oois for Sarah. Where was it?

She thought about it for a long time, as she handed the cranberry sauce to him. She had made a proper turkey dinner to eat with him on Christmas, and he had brought her a bottle of wine. He was sleeping at the chateau that night again, but he was planning to come back the next day to give Gladys the pearl earrings. But as she looked at him, she finally remembered. I'm almost positive the historical society has a book about her. I tliink that's where I saw the drawing. I'm not certain, but I'm fairly sure of it.

I'll go in and check after Christmas.

I'll look through the books I have as well, she promised Charlie. I might have a book or two about him. Fran+oois de Pellerin was quite an important person in this part of the world in the latter half of the eighteenth century. The Indians all considered him one of theirs, and he was the only Frenchman around here whom both the settlers and the Indians were genuinely fond of. I tliink he was even quite respected by the British, which was a real feat for a Frenchman.

Why did he come here? Charlie asked her again, he loved hearing everything she knew about it. I suppose the Revolutionary War brought him here initially. But there must have been another reason why he stayed.

Maybe just because of his Iroquois wife ' or perhaps for Sarah. I don't remember all the details. I was always more intrigued by her, although I loved hearing about both of them when I first heard the stories. My grandmother loved to talk about it. Sometimes I used to think she was almost in love with what she knew of Fran+oois. Her grandfather had actually met him. He died a long, long time before Sarah.

How sad for her, Charlie said quietly. They were so real to him, but he had also been thinking of Mrs. Palmer, of how lonely she must have been ever since her husband died.

But at least she had Charlie now, to distract her. She had friends in Shelburne Falls, lots of them. But Charlie was someone new, and very special.

Tell me, are you still going skiing, Charles? she asked, as they ate apple pie with homemade vanilla ice cream. This time, he hadn't cooked for her, he had been too busy settling into his house all afternoon, and everything had been ready when he arrived wearing a dark suit, and a tie. Mrs. Palmer was wearing a black silk dress her husband had bought her twenty years before in Boston, and the pearls he had given to her at their wedding. And Charlie thought she looked lovely. He was grateful to be with her. This Christmas together provided him with the family he no longer had, and he did the same for her. They were well met and well matched, and happy to be together. And in the excitement of moving in, he realized that he'd forgotten all about going skiing.

Maybe over the New Year, he said vaguely, and she smiled at him. He looked so much happier and more at ease than he had when he'd arrived. He seemed younger now, and a little more carefree. He had lost some of that anguished, tortured expression that he had worn for the past year, although she couldn't have known that. It seems such a pity to leave now, he said, looking distracted. Vermont was a long way from Shelburne Falls, and going there seemed a lot less appealing. He didn't want to leave his new friend or his house yet.

Why don't you go to Charlemont? It's only twenty minutes from here. I'm not sure if the skiing is quite as good, but you could try it. And you can always go to Vermont a little later. When the thrill of the house wore off, and he felt less compelled to be there. She understood completely.

That's a great idea, he agreed. Maybe I'll go in a few days. It was so convenient. He even had ski terrain twenty minutes from his doorstep. He had truly found the perfect location.

They talked again for a long time that night. It was a difficult time for both of them, and neither of them wanted to let go, and be left alone with their private sorrows and demons. There had been too much grief in both their lives, particularly hers, to make either of them want to spend Christmas Eve alone. And Charlie didn't leave her until he was sure she was ready to go to bed. He kissed her gently on the cheek, and thanked her for dinner, and then he let himself out, while Glynnis wagged her tail and watched him.

He crunched briefly through the fresh snow. It was knee-high even on the road, and over his head in some of the drifts along the road to Deerfield. It was even higher in places near his chateau. And he loved seeing it. The world looked so pure and so idyllic with everything blanketed in smooth white cotton. And as he drove home he saw hares darting through the snow, and a deer watching him from the side of the road. It was as though all the people had disappeared, and all that was left were the animals, and the stars, and the angels.

He reached the road to his chateau easily, and left the car where he knew he could still get it out the next day, and walked the rest of the way in, just as he had with all of his supplies, and the men he'd hired had done with the few pieces of furniture he had borrowed from her. But he didn't mind the inconvenience. It made the house seem even more remote, and the place where he was even more special.

He was humming to himself as he walked in that night, and he felt more at peace than he had in a long time. It was amazing how fate or life or God had provided for him, and found a place where he could heal and think and be. Charles knew without a moment's doubt that this house was just what he needed. And as he turned the brass key in the lock and walked in, he felt the same happiness and ease that he had felt here right from the beginning. It was as though there had once been so much joy there that it had lasted for two centuries, and he could still feel it. There was nothing eerie, or odd, or even remotely spooky about it. Even late at night, it seemed filled with light and love and sunshine. And he knew with total certainty that it wasn't just the colors of the walls, or the size of the rooms, or the view, it was the aura he felt there. If there were spirits there, they were obviously extremely happy ones, he thought to himself as he walked slowly upstairs, thinking about Mrs. Palmer. He was already incredibly fond of her, and wished he could do something special for her. He was thinking about doing a painting, perhaps of the valley from the vantage point of his bedroom. And as he thought about it, he walked into his room, and turned the light on. And as he did, he gave an enormous start. There was a woman standing there, looking at him. She was wearing a white gown, she held a hand out to him, and she was smiling. She looked as though she were about to say something to him, and then she walked away and disappeared behind the curtains. She had long, jet-black hair, and skin so fair it looked like ivory, and he had noticed that her eyes were distinctly blue. He had noticed every detail about her, and there was no question in his mind about who she was or how she'd gotten there. This was no ghost. This was a woman who had gotten into his house, probably to play a trick on him, and he wanted to know where she'd gone, and where she came from.

Hello! He spoke clearly into the room, waiting for her to come out from behind the curtain where he had just seen her. But when she didn't, he realized she was embarrassed to do so. And she should have been. It was a foolish trick to play, particularly on Christmas. Hello! he said louder this time. Who are you? And with that, he strode across the room, and pulled the curtain back with one long, swift motion. But there was no one there. There was not a sound. And the window was open. He was sure he'd left it closed, in case it snowed again while he was out, but he also realized that he could have been mistaken, and he might have forgotten to close it.

He moved along to the next curtain then. There was something very odd about what was happening. He knew she had to be somewhere in the room, and he was vaguely aware of how beautiful she had been. But that was not the point now. He didn't want the locals playing with him, or letting themselves into his house through the French windows. He could only imagine that that was how she had entered. The windows were very old, and despite the two-hundred-year-old locks, if you pushed them hard enough, they opened. Everything in the house was original, all the fixtures, all the hardware, even the glass in the windows had been handblown and you could see the irregularities and the fluid marks in them. The only things that had been changed in the past two centuries were the electricity and the plumbing, and even that was not very recent. Gladys had last had it seen to in the early fifties. And Charlie had already promised her he would check it for her. The last thing they wanted was an electrical fire, which could destroy the house after she and all her ancestors had been so careful to preserve it. But that was not on his mind now. The only thing he was interested in was the woman he had seen in his bedroom. He checked all the curtains then, and the bathroom, and the closets, but she was nowhere, and yet when he walked around the room, he could feel that he was not alone. It was almost as though she were watching him. He knew she was there, but he just couldn't find where she was hiding.

What are you doing here? he asked, sounding annoyed, and he heard a rustle of silk just behind him. He turned swiftly then, ready to confront her. but he saw nothing, and then he felt an odd sense of peace come over him, as though she had introduced herself to him, or he had recognized her. Suddenly, he knew exactly who he had seen in his room, and he no longer believed she had come in through the French windows.

Sarah? he said, in a whisper, feeling suddenly very foolish. What if it wasn't her? If there was truly a live human being watching him, waiting to report to her friends what a fool he'd been, and yet he no longer believed that. He could feel her. And he stood silently, his eyes sweeping the room, but he saw nothing. He stood there for a long time, immobile, and yet he never had the sense that she had left him. He could still feel her standing near him. But there was no sound, no movement, and the woman in the white gown was gone. And yet he had seen her so clearly. She had looked right into his eyes, and smiled at him, as though she were welcoming him to her bedroom. And he already knew from Gladys that he had instinctively chosen the room she had shared with Fran+oois, it was the room in which she had lain with him, and where Gladys said she had borne their children.

He wanted to say her name again, but he didn't dare, and it almost felt as though she knew what he was thinking. He felt no hostile presence there, and he wasn't afraid of her. All he wanted was for her to appear again, so he could see her more clearly. But what he had seen was already etched in his memory, and he knew he would never forget her.

He went to the bathroom finally, and undressed. He had bought new pajamas for himself because it was cold in the house at night, and he came out wearing them. The heating system worked well and there were fireplaces everywhere, but he didn't always want to use them. And he was hoping that when he came back into the room, he would see her again, but he didn't. And after a few minutes of glancing around the room, he carefully turned the light off, and got into bed. He hadn't bothered to pull down the shades because the morning light never bothered him, and as he lay in his bed, the room was filled with moonlight.

And as mad as it seemed, and he would have hated to have to explain it to anyone, he could still feel her near him. He was aware of no other presence in the room, only her, but he was absolutely certain it was Sarah. Sarah Ferguson de Pellerin. The name sounded so elegant and so noble, just as she had looked when he saw her. She was a rare beauty. And then, as he lay there, thinking of her, he laughed at himself, and the sound filled the room as he chuckled. His life had certainly changed in the past year. He had spent Christmas Eve with a woman about to turn seventy, and the rest of the night with the ghost of a woman who had been dead for a hundred and sixty years, and had been in her prime two centuries before. It was certainly a change from spending Christmas with his wife in London. And he knew that if he told anyone, they would be absolutely certain he had lost his marbles. But he was just as sure he hadn't.