Read The Ghost of Christmas Past Online
Authors: Sally Quilford
Elizabeth
was shocked by such language. Albert Sanderson must have a strange power over
women if they were willing, because he was handsome and had that hint of
darkness behind his eyes, to defend him even when he had killed. She vowed to
arm herself against such feelings. She did not want to be like Lady Clarissa in
fifteen years time. Bitter and unhappy over a man who she would no doubt be
sensible to avoid.
“I am
just going to visit the Hardacres,” said Elizabeth. “But if you would like to
stay with us I can return home and make the arrangements.”
“Thank
you, but no, Miss Dearheart. You are a good, kind soul. Unfortunately some
journeys are meant to be taken alone.”
Wondering
exactly what Lady Clarissa meant by that, Elizabeth went on to the Hardacre’s
rented manor house, Mr. Hardacre had bad news for her.
“I am
afraid my sister has taken a turn for the worse, Miss Dearheart. She is unable
to go walking after all and has gone back to bed. But she is eager to see you
and hear all the gossip. Would it be too much trouble for you to sit with her
for a while, so that I can attend to the household accounts?”
“Not
at all. I would be delighted to.”
“You
are an angel sent from above. One day perhaps I won't have to deal with those
awful accounts alone. My dream is that I will find my own angel to help me.”
His words were so full of meaning, Elizabeth blushed. Yet something about Mr.
Hardacre had changed. Elizabeth did not know what. He was as handsome and
attentive as ever. Yet the attraction she previously felt towards him had
dimmed. When she looked at him, all she could see was Liam Doubleday. She began
to wonder if madness was indeed infectious as many people feared.
When
she entered Dora Hardacre’s boudoir, she was struck by the difference between
that and Lady Bedlington's. Whereas her great aunt’s room was dark and dreary,
Dora’s room, though dark because of the weather, was cosy. A big fire burned in
the great, and candles lit up the dark corners.
Dora
lay back on a chaise longue, dressed in a luscious red velvet housecoat. She
was about thirty-two years old. Large cornflower blue eyes, golden hair and
rounded cheeks made her look years younger. She really was the prettiest woman
Elizabeth had ever seen.
“Miss
Dearheart, how kind of you to come,” said Dora. She pulled herself up to a
sitting position. “I do apologise. I was so looking forward to our walk.”
“Please,
there is nothing to apologise for,” said Elizabeth. She reached out and took Dora’s
hand. “Oh, you’re freezing cold. Can I get you anything? A hot water bottle, or
a warm drink?”
“No,
I will be fine. It is bad circulation. I am sure that if I could get up and
about I would be much better, but sadly my brother insists I rest. He is the
kindest, most attentive brother one could have.” Dora smiled, showing dimpled
cheeks. “And he is most taken with you.” Her already large eyes widened and
were filled with laughter. “All day, he sings your praises. If I were not so
taken with you myself, I should be most jealous of all the attention he pays
you.”
Not
for the first time that day, Elizabeth felt herself blushing. “I am sure that
is not so,” she said. “I’m such a dull little thing.”
“I’ll
let you in on a secret. My brother has travelled the world in search of
adventure, but what he really wants is to settle in a place like Midchester, in
a tiny cottage, with a pretty wife.”
“Have
you both travelled widely?” asked Elizabeth. “Do tell me about it. I would love
to travel.”
“We
have seen the world. America, China, India, Africa. But there is no place like
home, as I'm sure you know, and Midchester would be a wonderful place to
settle. If only my brother were not forced to earn a living...”
Despite
her admiration for Dora Hardacre, Elizabeth felt herself bristle. Why did
people keep urging her not to seek excitement and adventure? Especially when
they themselves had travelled widely. Were the wonders of the world some secret
they wished to keep to themselves? Did she have to join a special club in order
to be deemed suitable? Every time she mentioned the world outside Midchester,
she was reminded of its virtues. It was most irritating.
She
suddenly realised that Dora had been talking during her reverie. “I’m sorry,
Miss Hardacre, I was miles away.” Or at least I wish I was, she thought.
“I
was saying if my brother were not forced to earn a living, we could stay. It is
outrageous that a gentleman of his standing must get his hands dirty – albeit
in an office rather than in a coalmine – but there it is. I would help, but I
am a mere woman, and have no skills. So our choices are made for us...”
“You’re
leaving Midchester?”
“Yes,
my brother’s business interests are calling him elsewhere.”
“Oh
no,” said Elizabeth. “We will be sorry to lose you.”
“Well,
it does not have to happen yet. Now, you must tell me all about this murder.
How exciting it must have been for you to be ‘at the scene of the crime’ as
they say.”
Elizabeth
hesitated to use the word exciting for fear it might make her sound like the
sisters, but she had to admit that the murder had brought a strange sense of
adventure into her life. Perhaps all what awaited her in Midchester was the
chance of turning into Mrs. Chatterbucks or Miss Graves, revelling in others'
misfortune. She shuddered at the thought, remembering with shame how she had
said things to Lady Clarissa, just to gauge her reaction. In the end, she
comforted herself in the knowledge that all she had was a healthy interest in
finding the guilty.
Chapter
Four
Mrs.
Chatterbucks and Miss Graves were right in that Lady Bedlington knew how to
keep a good table, but it was the first time they had been allowed to see it. Despite
her earlier impatience, Elizabeth felt a strange affection for them, as they
sat amidst the candlelight with a table that groaned with more food than they
would see in a month.
Dressed
in black lace gowns that had been fashionable some thirty years previously, the
sisters were initially on their best behaviour, mindful of the fact they were
in the presence of a great personality. Lady Bedlington, also dressed in black
lace, but in a gown recently ordered from Paris, sat in a bath chair at the
head of the table, smiling benignly at the other guests. She reminded Elizabeth
of an aged panther waiting to pounce. The guests, apart from the sisters, were
Elizabeth's father, Doctor and Mrs. Wheston, Constable Hounds, The magistrate, Mr.
Jenkins and his wife, Mr. Hardacre; and perusing the scene with an air of
detached amusement, Liam Doubleday.
Seeing
Hardacre and Doubleday in the same room together, it was hard for Elizabeth to
decide who was the most attractive. They each had their own charm, but whereas
Hardacre was the typical English gentleman, with fine whiskers, and a proud
bearing, Doubleday had a wilder air altogether. It was not that he lacked
proper manners. Far from it. He was clearly a gentleman and most charming to
everyone, but like her aunt's panther-like stance, there was a sense that Liam
Doubleday might just pounce. His eyes were like flames directed at her heart. Was
it that same fire in Liam's eyes that attracted the otherwise cold Lady
Clarissa?
“Tell
me, Constable,” said Lady Bedlington. “Are you any closer to catching the man's
killer?”
“I
ham hafraid not, Your Grace,” said Hounds, sounding quite unlike Elizabeth had
ever heard him. Her heart went out to him, and she wished he could relax a
little in her aunt's presence.
“I'm
a lady, not a duchess, though the mistake is forgivable. After all, if I had
not settled for Lord Bedlington and this dreadful pile,” she looked around the
dining room, which would hold the constable's cottage twice with room to spare,
“I might have married the Duke of Devonshire. Go on.”
“We
har, hof course, trying to track down 'is brother, Halbert Sanderson.”
“Halibut?”
“Albert,”
Elizabeth offered, to save Hounds from any more embarrassment. She noticed Liam
looking at her then at Hounds. His eyes were still amused, but they held
something else. She took it to be the same sympathy she felt for the constable.
“But,” Elizabeth continued, “I don't believe that just because a man suffers
from a nervous disease it automatically makes him a killer. I hear that his
brother, Mr. George Sanderson, was a kind gentle, man, who did his best to help
Albert during his troubles.”
“Even
a good dog will bite you eventually,” said Lady Bedlington, sagely.
“Oh
yes,” said Miss Graves, fortified by a glass of wine. “Remember that old
collie, Hector, we had as children, Georgiana? It bit the stable boy, and the
poor lad had to have his leg chopped off. It proves that in the midst of life
we are in death.”
“But
surely it was only the stable boy’s leg that died,” said Liam. Elizabeth almost
choked on her wine.
“Well,
funnily enough,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “he did insist on giving it a full
Christian burial. Said he didn't want to be without it when he got to heaven.
Then there was the time that the butler got bitten by our Labrador. Took the
end of his finger off. Had to be put down.”
Elizabeth
suspected the stories were less about the butler's misfortune and more about Mrs.
Chatterbuck's wanting Lady Bedlington to know that they too had come from
landed gentry. The sisters had been the youngest siblings of three older
sisters, and two older brothers, all of whom died before they were thirty. It
was hardly surprising that they had such a fixation with death. By the time it
came the turn to make their entrance into society, the estate had been entailed
away to a male cousin who had no intentions of doing the decent thing by
marrying one of them.
“The
butler had to be put down?” said Doctor Wheston. Mrs. Wheston exchanged glances
with Elizabeth then stared resolutely at her food, whilst struggling to keep
her face straight.
“No,
the dog, of course.”
“That
is a relief,” said Lady Bedlington. “It is hard enough to get a decent butler.”
“I do
hope the butler's finger was given a decent burial,” said Liam. Elizabeth dare
not catch his eye.
“Well
in a manner of speaking,” said Miss Graves. “It was inside the dog, you see.”
“Anyway,
back to the recent murder,” said the Reverend Dearheart, as the guests began to
splutter into their soup. “It is a sad day for Midchester when a man loses his
life. Having said that, I have never seen the town so invigorated.”
“Really,
Philip, one would think you approve,” said Lady Bedlington. “Of course, when
one marries beneath one's class...”
“One
is happier than one has ever been in one's life,” said Philip Dearheart firmly,
smiling at his daughter. “Surely as a possible consort for a duke who gave him
up to marry a mere lord you would understand that, Arabella.”
Lady
Bedlington scowled at the Reverend, and then pointedly started talking about
other matters.
“I
like your father very much, Miss Dearheart” said Liam later, when the men had
joined the women in the drawing room for after dinner coffee. She stood by the
window, looking out at the falling snow, letting the draft through the panes
cool her flushed cheeks. The fact that he stood so close to her did not help.
“I'm
really rather fond of him myself,” said Elizabeth. Liam did not know it, but he
had just paid her the highest compliment he could.
“And
have you inherited his fearlessness?”
“Oh
no, I'm afraid of everything.”
“I
don't believe that. There's been a murder, talk of ghosts, people seeing things
that aren't there, and yet you still stride through Midchester, helping others,
and bringing light in the darkness.”
“I
suppose I believe, perhaps a trifle arrogantly, that Midchester belongs to me,
and I refuse to let any murderers or ghosts steal it from me. Besides, most
murderers only kill once, I believe. Whatever reason poor Mr. Sanderson was
struck down, I think that reason probably died with him. Don't you?” She looked
at him intently, trying to read his mind.
“I
hope so, Miss Dearheart. I … I would hate to see any more trouble brought to
this wonderful town of yours. Midchester is like a haven in the storm. All
around us there is an industrial revolution taking place. Railways, factories,
and one day they say man will take to the skies. Yet this town remains
oblivious to all that.”
“And
you think that's a good thing, refusing to move with the times?”
“I
always think it's better to let the times come to you, Miss Dearheart, not to
chase after them. I did too much of that. I wanted to be a pioneering doctor. I
travelled the world in pursuit of that, learning from the best. But do you know
what being a real doctor is?”
“What?”
“It's
doing what John Wheston does. Sitting at peoples' bedsides, listening to their
worries, assuring them they're going to pull through. A man loses that when he
chases after the glittering prizes. He forgets that there are human beings at
the end of those pioneering treatments.”