Fair Maiden (7 page)

“Finally I’ll be able to afford more servants and be able to
properly maintain this castle.”

Jackson said nothing more as he swung the door open and they
entered the room.

“Lord Krestly,” the black-haired solicitor said as he stood
to greet them. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, Mr. Leeraby. Pray I hope you come with good
news,” Christian said, settling into his favorite, overstuffed chair. He
motioned for Leeraby to retake his seat.

“I do. I think you will be quite pleased, indeed,” replied
Leeraby as he sat and slid papers from a leather case. “I’ve gained the
conditions your father set for you to receive a goodly portion of your
allowance.”

A goodly portion?
thought Christian. He’d been under
the impression he would regain all of his allowance with an increase when he
reached twenty-six.

Leeraby dropped the papers onto the desk in front of
Christian. “Your parents are quite keen on seeing their grandchildren. So to motivate
you to hurry things along, they would like you to marry, at which point, you
will receive the considerable sum that is noted here.” He tapped his index
finger on the amount scripted on the bottom of the first page. “Then when you
beget an heir, you will receive the increase.”

Christian couldn’t get his brain to un-seize. Yes, he had
wanted to marry, but now, with
her
, he wasn’t so fond of the idea.
“Married? Please tell me you’re joking. I have not been courting anyone as of
late. It will take time for me to find,” he paused, “a suitable wife. And I’m
in need of the funds now.”

It was as if he’d said absolutely nothing. “Oh, and before I
forget, your mother sent along some invitations to the upcoming balls.” Which
Leeraby deposited next to the paperwork. “There are many fine young ladies
coming out for the Season. I hear the prospects are absolutely delightful for
the new countess.”

“You look like a fish with your mouth gaping like that, my
lord,” Jackson said.

Christian snapped his lips together. But he couldn’t stop
the images of
her
from consuming him. The very thought of marriage
brought her to the forefront, and he couldn’t picture himself with anyone else.
Certainly not one of the snotty little chits that he’d met the last time he
waded through the haute ton.

Yet…the lovely ghost was not truly available. His eyes
landed on the pile of invitations and he knew that a sneer of disgust had taken
to his mouth with simply the thought of attending those soirées.

He launched from his chair and began an angry path to the
window. One fist landed on the frame as he looked out onto the landscape. How
could his parents do this to him? They knew he was in need, that he didn’t have
the funds necessary to run Krestly Castle. And now this! This foul manipulation
of his rights! It was likely another one of his father’s tests, meant to
distress him, and force him to prove himself. Blast that man!

“Well, I see you’re feeling overwhelmed. I will be on my
way,” Leeraby said, as he gave Christian a hardy pat on the back and then his
footfalls were heard retreating to the door.

“I’ll see you out, Mr. Leeraby,” said Jackson.

When Jackson returned, Christian listened to the old man
sift through the invitations. He didn’t look up until the man said, “Ah, there
is to be a ball at the Brenton’s Manor. That should be a lovely evening.”

Christian couldn’t hold back his irritation with this
injustice any longer. “I could never be so cruel! Do you not see what this
means?”

“This means you will have the funds you need, and please
your parents with an heir.”

“No, it quite simply does not! She’ll be forced to witness
all of the things she cannot have. Jackson, she’ll be devastated. I can’t do
that to her.”

“Perhaps we could help send her to Heaven—”

“No, Jackson!” Christian left the window, stomped back to
the desk, and while emitting a low growl, shot out his hand and knocked the
colorful missives to the floor. He didn’t
want
her to leave, but said,
“She is trapped here, she cannot move on. I believe she would have gone to
Heaven by now if she could have. She is not a haunted soul. I do not know what
keeps her here.”

“But you must try—”

“Stop!”

“I’m sorry, Chris, but this is what’s best for you. You must
find a bride to resume collecting an allowance, and you know that you cannot
marry the specter. If you wait for what you can never have you will lose the
castle!”

“Leave me, Jackson, I wish to speak of this no longer.”

“Might I bring you some tea, or warmed milk?”

“No!” Christian snapped and then struggled to calm his tone.
“Please, leave me be,” he muttered softly.

Jackson moaned, rolled his eyes, and shuffled from the room
as fast as his geriatric legs could carry him.

A few minutes after that, Christian sensed her when she
entered his study. He looked up.

“How do you do that?” she asked, with a charming look of
surprise rounding her enchanting green eyes. “I know I did not make any noise,
yet you knew whence I came.”

“I suppose I could feel your presence.”

“Did all go well with the solicitor?”

He knew his nod was sharp and hoped that she couldn’t sense
the tension that innocent question stirred within him.

“What is a solicitor? It sounds familiar.”

“A lawyer who deals with legal papers. Land and such.”
Christian ignored the fact that she still looked confused and endeavored to
change the subject, “Did you have a good time in the gardens?”

“Yes, the wildflowers where the horses graze are lovely.”
She hesitated, then added, “I only wish I could smell them, or pluck them and
experience the texture. And,” she tipped her chin up, “I looked for faeries,
but I saw naught.”

He could not miss the note of hope in her tone, but his had
faltered with this new development, this new demand from his father. It would
crush her if she knew, so he decided that he would not share it.

Unable to face her, he rubbed his throbbing temples and
closed his eyes, then choked when he looked up again and saw her reading one of
the ball invitations. She’d lifted it from the floor telepathically and had
opened it. The lavender paper hovered about two feet away from her face as she
perused the words.

“Tell me about the balls in London. What are they like?”

He swallowed. “Surely you had balls in your day.”

“Aye, I believe so, but I would think they are different now
than they were then.”

“Yes, they are.”

“And I would guess the dances are different, too?”

“I would deduce the same.”

“Would you show me?”

Was there not anything he could deny her? Well, besides this
distressing expectation from his father—apparently not, because he found
himself moving automatically to the gramophone to put on some music, and give
it a few cranks. While he did that, he determined he would fight this marriage
demand for as long as he could.

As the intricate melody of a Viennese Waltz began to fill
the room he reached for her hand, and then drew back when he saw the look on
her face.

“What manner of sorcery is that?” she asked, staring at the
gramophone with rounded green eyes.

He laughed, surprised at himself for taking this luxury for
granted. “There is no magic to it. Here, let me show you.” He stopped the music
to demonstrate more slowly how it worked. He lifted the record and then set it
back down, cranked the handle a few more times, and then let it start up again.

She was hovering at the end of the horn where the sound
comes out, listening with a mystified look touching every aspect of her
expression. She reached out and tried to feel the vibrations of the melody,
then turned her face to peer into the horn. “But where are the minstrels? There
is not enough room for normal sized men. Are they tiny? Like faeries?”

Another laugh burst past his lips, louder this time. She
stood upright, looking, for all the world, confused as to why he found it
humorous. “It’s a
recording
of minstrel’s music. They aren’t actually
inside the box.”

The way her brows drew together, and the way her lips tipped
down at the corners, he could see she still had no idea what he meant. He
stopped the music again and lifted the record for her to look at it, pointing
out the grooves circling the round, flat surface. “Musicians play their music
and then the sound is transferred to this.”

“How do they do that?” she asked airily and slowly,
annunciating each word.

He didn’t actually know, and didn’t know how to even begin
to explain it, so he attempted another approach. “It’s not sorcery, darling,
it’s science.”

After another long and confused gaze into his eyes, she
turned her attention back to the gramophone.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, trying to remind her of the
reason he’d put music on in the first place.

The ghost took another peek into the brass horn and then
faced him. “Oh, yes please. The…what did you call it?”

“The waltz.”

Christian reached for her, but then became worried. How
could he lead her when he could not touch her? She smiled, stepping into his
arms and settled one hand over his shoulder and the other above his extended
palm just as he directed.

Watching carefully, he placed a hand at her waist to
complete the feigned hold, attempting to not pass it through her body.

Still, he wondered how he was going to actually guide her
without pressing on her back. “Hmm, are you familiar with the basic steps? I
don’t recall the history….”

When she stared back at him, pinching that bottom lip of
hers between her teeth, he knew she either didn’t know it, or simply couldn’t
recall. And a Viennese was plainly too fast for him to tutor her. He stepped
away from her, and dropped his arms, apologizing with his gaze. “Let’s try an
ordinary waltz. The tempo isn’t quite so quick,” he said, moving back to the
gramophone to select a more appropriate tune.

As the next arrangement began, he said, “Now, I suggest you
watch first, so that I may demonstrate the steps. Then we’ll try it together.”
He lifted his arms as if he were holding her and began to count as he waltzed
through a circle around her.

He stopped, then said, “Ready?”

Again stepping into his hold, she smiled and released her
bottom lip. “Ready.”

“One two three, one—” He began and then halted when he could
see and feel that they were not moving as one, and they were drifting right through
one another. “Oh, dear.”

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“I—well, no, not exactly. It’s simply—” He exhaled. His
irritation was with himself, and the fact that he couldn’t actually touch her.
How was he to instruct? Then an idea came to him. “How about this? Watch my
chest, and that should alert you to my next move.”

She nodded, wide eyed, innocent, and eager.

They began, again with him counting. And this time, it
worked. Mostly. She was able to keep track of his guidance by watching his
chest, though she did take a few peeks down at his feet to maintain track of
their movement as well. She squealed with delight. “Oh! Such fun! Is this what
you do when you go to London?”

“This is a favorite pastime of the ton.”

“The what?”

“Ah, of course you don’t know what that is. The
ton
is the upper class of English society, the fashionable scene in London. Vogue London. In truth, I try to avoid the gossiping, judgmental lot.”

“Why?”

“They can be quite unkind and shun you from parties if you
do not behave as they expect. Even having you here alone with me would be
looked down upon.”

“Does my being here cause a problem for you?”

“Certainly not, you’re not—” He cleared his throat of the
last word. Not wanting to say it like that and upset her. Again.

After a long pause, she said, “It sounds like court.”

“Have you been to court?”

She frowned. “I—do not recall.”

For a moment he hoped this would give him a clue as to who
she was. She could be titled if she’d been to court, but she could have also
been a lady’s maid and still gone to court. Again, this proved little either
way.

“There are other dances I could teach you.” He hoped that
she appreciated his efforts to change the subject.

She beamed up at him. “Could you?”

Christian grinned back and switched the music again.

When she’d retired for the evening, he still wished to see
her room, but had remained in a foul mood, and asked to view it later. As she
left, his gaze fell to the soirée invitations again. What a mess.

He went over his ledgers to see how long he could drag this
out financially. Not long.

Chapter
7

Vision

In the days that passed she’d conversed with Jackson and
Christian enough to get to know both of them quite well. The three of them had
agreed that perhaps she should not show herself to the other servants. Mainly
because Jackson said the cook was too superstitious and would not likely react
well. And since the others held her opinion in high regard, they reasoned that
none of them should know about the ghost dwelling with them in the castle.

She did not feel as sad as she had before, but remained
frustrated with her situation. And she could not see a way of changing it. She
took one look at the missive on her bed and reminded herself that she was
loved, even though she did not know who loved her enough to tell her in such a
way. But also could not help but wonder how she was in danger, and by whom. The
witch’s words lingered in the back of her thoughts and simply would not relent.

With a sigh, she shifted to the looking glass on the wall
again. She still wore the same dress, with the same veil, and the same ribbons
tied in her hair. She’d tried to change her appearance with thought, but could
not seem to manage that. She could glide through solid objects, she could hover
above anything, and move and lift things with nothing more than her mind, but
she had limitations beyond that.