Carola Dunn (26 page)

 “I did not see anything,” said Amelia doubtfully.

 The response was harsh. “It is not given to the uninitiated to read the future!”

 Amelia jump to her feet, then bobbed a curtsy and said with dignity, “Thank you, ma’am.” Peter was proud of her as she took his arm and walked straight-backed from the tent.

 Outside, a plump farm girl was waiting with her swain, giggling. “What’s it like, Miss Blake?” she asked. “Did the crone tell you who you’re going to wed?” She flirted her eyelashes at Peter and he winked at her.

 “It was spine-chilling,” he said in a sepulchral voice.

 “It was strange,” said Amelia slowly. “You had best take Ernie in with you.” As the couple entered the tent, she turned to Peter. “I do not understand what the Gypsy meant.”

 He grinned. “The usual garbled nonsense, but easy enough to decipher. A betrothal ring, obviously, and a wedding ceremony with you wearing a white wedding dress.”

 “And the ancient place?”

 “The church.”

 “It is old,” she admitted, disappointed and dissatisfied. “Papa says parts of it are Norman. That was an excessively dull fortune. I wanted something exciting.”

 “Isn’t marrying me exciting enough for you?”

 “She did not say it was you I shall marry,” Amelia pointed out with a saucy look, recovering her spirits.

 “She would never commit herself to anything so specific. As it is, you are bound to be betrothed and married some day so she could hardly go wrong.”

 “Well, I believe what she said, and I am not so sure it was as simple as you say.”

 “Nothing will convince you it’s all superstition?” Several glasses of Mr. Gregg’s notorious punch put the next words into Peter’s mouth. “I’ll tell you what, I shall prove to you that ghosts don’t exist.”

 “How?” she challenged him.

 “We shall go up to Stonehenge at midnight. The Druids used to build huge fires at Halloween to drive off the evil spirits they believed were let loose at midnight by the god of the dead. Can you imagine any place or any time when ghosts are more likely to appear?”

 “N-no.”

 “Then if we are there and nothing materialises, you will have to believe that there is no such thing as a ghost.”

 Her head cocked, she gave him a speculative look from beneath long lashes. “Perhaps,” she conceded.

 “You are not afraid?”

 “Papa says if ghosts exist they are immaterial beings who cannot harm the living.”

 “Good enough. You go and bob for apples while I make arrangements.”

 “Bob for apples! Not I. My ringlets would dangle in the water.”

 “That would be too dreadful for words. Did you sleep in curl papers all night?”

 “No gentleman would ask such a question of a lady! I shall go and dance with one of my other beaux.”

 Peter watched her cross the room, slight and graceful in her high-waisted gown with its straight skirt and puff sleeves.

Before she was half way to her mother’s side, she was surrounded by friends, both male and female. A moment later her father’s curate led her onto the dance floor, where a country dance was about to start up.

 How could she bring herself to stand up with such a wretched, stoop-shouldered fellow? He would probably step on her toes—he was no better at dancing than he was at riding, and he couldn’t drive a pair to save his life. A whey-faced, mealy-mouthed flat, he didn’t even know the difference between wheat and barley, and a boar in rut would send him scampering for—

 “Yellow with jealousy, Peter?”

 “Freddy, you are just the man I need.”

 “No, no, old chap, can’t challenge a man of God to a duel. Simply isn’t done.”

 “Not as my second, gudgeon. Listen.” He drew his friend, nattily clad in primrose pantaloons and a wine-red coat, into a quiet corner. “I’m taking Amelia up to Stonehenge at midnight to see the Druids.”

 “Druids!”

 “Haven’t you read old Colt Hoare’s stuff? You know, Sir Richard, my father’s friend over at Stourhead who’s forever writing books about Wiltshire antiquities. He proves pretty conclusively that Stonehenge was the chief Druid temple, and never mind those Banbury stories about the Romans or the Danes building the place.”

 “Yes, but whoever built it, you are two thousand years too late to see them cavorting there,” Freddy protested.

 “Not them, their ghosts. It’s the perfect place for ghosts. Remember when we read Caesar at school—”

 “Devil take it, you’ve never told Melly about the human sacrifices!”

 “Of course not—and she is Miss Blake to you.”

 “You’re not betrothed yet.”

 “Not yet,” said Peter smugly, “but believe me, we soon shall be after we have been seen alone together at Stonehenge in the middle of the night. Now listen, will you? Here is what I want you to do.”

 With some argument he persuaded his friend that his plan was a harmless lark, and gave him the blunt to buy a few old sheets from Mrs. Gregg, the landlord’s accommodating young wife. While Freddy went to round up his accomplices, Peter stood for a minute watching the dancers.

 Amelia was light on her feet as a week-old lamb. Her ringlets bobbed merrily as she smiled at her partner and turned on his arm. She loved to dance. If only she didn’t change her mind about going with him!

 Then she grimaced, and he guessed the curate really had trod on her toes, bless him. Peter went to harness his gig.

 The cold outside made his head swim. “No more punch,” he muttered to himself, blinking. What the devil did Gregg put in the stuff?

 After a moment, his head stopped going round and he made his way out into the stable yard. It was a clear, crisp night, the moon just past full. The yard and the street beyond were crammed with the motley collection of vehicles that had brought the local gentry and the wealthier farmers to town for the Halloween assembly. Fortunately Peter had arrived a little late, so his gig was easily accessible.

 His trusty roan, Snap, snorted his objection to being extracted from the friendly warmth of the stable. He stood patiently between the shafts, his breath steaming in the frosty air.

 Peter fastened the last buckle and went back into the inn’s entrance hall. In a dark nook by the staircase, Amelia was lurking, enveloped in her scarlet woollen cloak and hood. As she hurried towards him, he noted with approval that she had changed from dancing slippers into half-boots.

 “Quick, before someone sees me.” She took his arm and hurried him back through the door into the yard. “I told Mama I was going to sit with Mr. Gregg’s mother for half an hour.”

 “How noble!”

 “I did go and see old Mrs. Gregg for a few minutes earlier, so it is only a little bit of a fib. Hello, Snap.” She stroked the horse’s nose. “You must take us quickly there and back or I shall be well and truly in the briars.”

 Snap whickered and turned his head to watch them climb into the gig. At Peter’s signal, he set off trotting through the little town and started up the hill towards Salisbury Plain as the church clock chimed the third quarter. The road was in excellent repair after a period of dry weather, so they made good time. The hour had not yet sounded when they reached the road’s closest approach to Stonehenge.

 For the last few hundred feet, the light open carriage jolted across sheep-cropped turf. By moonlight the great stone arches loomed supernaturally immense, their black shadows stretching across the plain. Handing Amelia down from the gig, Peter shivered—up here in the open a biting breeze cut through his top coat.

 Amelia shivered too. He put his arm about her shoulders and together they picked their way through the four rings of stones to stop close to the altar stone.

 “Do you want to sit down?” he asked in a hushed voice.

 “On the sacrificial stone? Heavens, no! I hope it is nearly midnight, for I am half frozen.” She turned to put her arms around his waist and hid her face in his shoulder.

 He hugged her, suspecting that, though cold and scared, she was actually quite enjoying herself.

 From the distant town, the first stroke of midnight wafted to his ears. He glanced hopefully around the massive circle. Freddy had not had much time to gather their friends and bring them up here, but if they came too long after the clock stopped striking the impact of their arrival would be spoiled. Besides, an inflammation of the lungs would be a sorry end to this adventure.

 Ah, there they were. White-robed figures drifted through the arches and he heard a low, solemn chanting. How had they managed such a realistic show in so short a time? Four, then half a dozen, a score—who the devil had Freddy brought with him? Peter didn’t want a bunch of strangers catching him here with Amelia in his arms.

 More and more of the mysterious figures filed into the inmost ring, treading a stately measure. One carried a leafless branch on which grew a bush of mistletoe, its berries lucent as pearls in the moonlight. In the hands of another gleamed a sickle, and a third bore a blazing torch, its fiery light glinting on the wide gold collars and headdresses worn by the three high priests. The rhythmic chant grew louder, faster, almost drowning the screams.

 Screams! Peter saw that the torchbearer, at the altar stone, was setting light to a huge wicker basket, shaped like a man. And inside the basket were men, living men, and wailing women and children, bound with ropes of straw.

 A pale fire sprang up. The sacrificial victims writhed in agony, their tortured shrieks piercing the night. The smell of burning flesh reached Peter’s nostrils.

 Appalled, he tried to rush to the rescue. His legs refused to move; his feet were frozen to the ground. He tried to shout a protest. No sound emerged from his throat. He realized that he was not breathing. His heart, which should be pounding in terror and fury, was standing still.

 He could not even clasp Amelia closer to him to keep the dreadful sounds from her ears.

 The three high priests watched their victims last struggles with grave detachment. Around them the dancers had halted, facing inward. Peter saw avid faces and averted faces, the gloaters and the sickened, and some who looked upon the ghastly death of their fellow-beings with a lack of interest almost more horrifying than the greedy relish of others.

 The wicker form began to crumble as the flames leaped higher. The screams diminished to moans, and ceased.

 Amelia giggled.

 Peter shuddered and breathed again, gulping the icy air.

 Amelia raised her face to him and said with a teasing smile, “The last stroke of midnight. Do you realize that I am shockingly compromised being out here alone with you? I shall have to marry you after all.” She sighed.

 Bewildered, Peter gazed around. The druids were fading, becoming indistinct. Through their dim images skipped his friends, wrapped in sheets, howling in gleeful amusement. There were Freddy and his brother Ned, and over there young Bob, and Chris, the last more balloonlike than ever in his fluttering white drapery. And coming through the arches, Tommy’s lanky shape, last as usual. He’d recognize them anywhere, even with sheets over their heads.

 Ned’s spaniel barked and frisked about their legs as they capered round and round the altar stone, whooping or cackling as the fancy took them. Chris tripped over a trailing end of his costume, and Bob’s eye-holes went awry, leaving him blundering blindly. Amelia clung to Peter’s arm and laughed.

 “Did you not...” he began uncertainly, but Freddy pranced up to them and bowed.

 The others followed suit. Amelia clapped her hands as they all disrobed. “That was a splendid show, gentlemen,” she congratulated them.

 “It was famous sport; glad you enjoyed it, Miss Blake.” Grinning, Freddy smoothed his ruffled hair and cast a sidelong glance at Peter. “Well, we’d best be on our way.”

 Peter put out a hand to stop him. “I don’t suppose you happened to see anyone else dressed up as ghosts?”

 “Lord, no. No one around here but you would think of such a lark. Come on, fellows. I just hope the breeze hasn’t carried off my best hat.”

 “I daresay one of the horses has eaten it by now,” Bob suggested.

 With a screech worthy of the most unhappy ghost, Freddy loped off through the arches and the others went after him.

 Arm in arm, Peter and Amelia followed. By the time they emerged from the stone rings, all the young men were mounted—and hatted. Their mounts, it seemed, had graciously refrained from eating Freddy’s best beaver. The riders waved and cantered off across the grassy plain.

 Snap came trotting up to Peter, the gig bouncing behind him, and nuzzled at his pocket for the lump of sugar he always carried. Peter fed it to him, then handed Amelia into the gig. Jumping up beside her, he still felt slightly dazed, unsure of what was real and what was not.

 “Did you not see or hear any genuine ghosts?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice unconcerned, as he took up the reins and whip and gave Snap the office to start.

 “Of course not. I am not quite the ninny you think me, and I expected something of the sort when you proposed coming up here. They did it very well, but no one could possibly mistake your friends for genuine ghosts. I hope they did not steal the sheets off somebody’s washing line.”

 “I gave Freddy the money to buy them from young Mrs. Gregg,” he said absently. Thank heaven she had not been aware of the Druids. He would never have forgiven himself for subjecting his beloved to those gruesome sights and sounds. Taking a deep breath, he resolved to try to forget them.

 While he was hesitating over how to phrase his next question, a cold little hand, in a thin silk glove meant for dancing, slipped into his. He dropped the whip—he never used it on Snap anyway.

 “Peter,” Amelia confided, “I don’t really mind being compromised and having to marry you.”

 “You don’t?”

 “No. You see, I have loved you ever since you stopped pulling my pigtails.”

 “You have? Oh, my darling Melly.” The reins joined the whip on the gig’s floor. He gathered her in his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.

 Snap trotted on. When Peter emerged from the blissful embrace and picked up the reins again, the patient beast merely gave an indulgent snort.