The Phantom Lover (30 page)

June came in with a rainstorm as vehement and furious as any she'd experienced during the last autumn. The wind howled at the windows and down the chimneys as if it wanted to tear the building down. “Listen to
that
will 'ee?” Gwinnys muttered, adding a log to the fire in Nell's bedroom as Nell prepared for bed. “The wind's too angalish, I mind.”

“Angalish?” Nell asked, having become attracted to the Cornish customs and language and eager to learn as much as she could. “Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. Does it mean
angry
?”

“More like … er … cruel or vicious, I seem,” Gwinnys said with puckered brow. She rose from the fire, brushed off her apron and turned to Nell with a possessive motherliness. “You'll be needin' a warmer nightdress, Miss Nell. Here, let me help 'ee.”

After putting her mistress in a proper nightdress and cap, and all but tucking her into bed like a babe, Gwinnys went to the door. “I be just down the hall, y'know, Miss Nell, if 'ee have need o' me.”

Nell made a face at her. “Why would I have need of you, you goose?”

Gwinnys shrugged. “A wind like this'n is like to make one
nag-ridden
.”

“Very well, if I'm troubled by nightmares, I'll be sure to call you,” Nell promised, blowing out her candle.

Late that night, when the sound of thumping footsteps and the rattle of chains penetrated her dreams, Nell scolded herself in her sleep. “Gwinnys was right—I'm nag-ridden,” she told herself. “I'm having nightmares, I suppose. He is
not
coming. There
is no ghost
. He is
not coming
!” But the sound persisted, and a sudden, loud crash caused her to sit up abruptly, her heart pounding so heavily in her chest that she could scarcely breathe. “
H-Harry
?” she whispered into the darkness, too wary of the pain of disappointment to permit herself to believe what she'd heard.

There was a moment of silence and she was almost convinced that it had been the wind that awakened her, when a flicker of light appeared behind the curtains and she distinctly heard a low, lugubrious moan. She pressed her trembling hands against her ears. “No, it
c-can't
be!” she told herself sternly. Another low moan reached her ears—she
couldn't
have mistaken it. “Harry, is it …
you
?” she asked urgently.

“I find that a most troublesome question,” his voice responded. “Have you given keys to anyone
else
, you disreputable wench?”

She gave a gasping laugh. “Oh, Harry, you've
come
!” Choked with tears, she dropped her head in her hands. “I was so afraid—! I didn't dare
hope
—!

“Madam!” Harry declared in mock severity. “Do you mean to imply that you doubted Harry D'Espry? That you imagined he would permit a trespasser to sleep
unmolested
in his bedroom?”

She lifted her head, her eyes shining, her cheeks sparkling with tears, and smiled tremulously. “Well, I did
hope
he would not leave me unmolested,” she admitted.

He laughed joyously. “You
are
a shameless baggage, as half of London describes you.”

“Do they, Harry?” she asked soberly.

“I'm afraid so. Four broken engagements! Shocking!”

“Were
you
shocked?”

“You
do
seem to be full of foolish questions tonight, girl. You know perfectly well that I prayed for nothing less. Your
last
jilt pleased me beyond words.”

“I'm glad you were pleased.” She paused and looked toward the glow beyond the curtains with her heart in her eyes. “And what is London saying of
you
, Harry?”

“They are extremely sorry for me. Miss Manning cried off, you see.”

Her breath caught sharply in her throat. “
She
cried off? I don't believe it!”

“It's quite true, though. You see, my love, although society proved not quite as callous and superficial as
I
anticipated, it was a bit more so than
you
believed. Miss Manning, for example, came to realize that she could not live with my ‘imperfection.'”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Harry.
What
imperfection?”

“Oh, my
sweet
Nell!” Harry sighed. “You are always a surprise and a delight to me. I was speaking of my missing leg, of course.”

“But that's ridiculous! Edwina was not
at all
disturbed by it!”

“That was true only at first. But after you left, my dear, I began to stumble a great deal—”

“Stumble! Oh, Harry!” she cried in concern. She fumblingly struck a match and lit her bedside candle to take a look at him. But he was not visible.

“Don't be alarmed, my dear. It was only a pretense on my part.”

“A pretense? I don't understand. Why?”

“Well, I realized that I'd been mistaken in putting my best foot forward, so to speak. I had done just what I'd accused society of doing—covering up and masking over all the illnesses, difficulties, deformities and problems. I'd hidden my crutch, mastered the use of a cane because it was less suggestive of infirmity, and kept my awkwardnesses, difficulties and pains well hidden. But my sham became a trap. I found myself imprisoned in a world of pretense and affectation, knotted to a woman who had no understanding of infirmity, and about to lose the one person with whom I could safely be myself.”

“Oh, Harry, not
Roddy
?” Nell asked in surprise.

“Not Roddy, you goose!” Harry said disgustedly. “
Your
#…

“
Oh
!” Nell whispered, overwhelmed.

“So I set about to bring my imperfection into prominence. I stumbled about a bit and I carried my crutch in public. And, in very little time, Edwina cried off.”

“Just because you stumbled?”

“Well, once I fell on my face.”

“Harry, what a cruel trick! Gwinnys would call it
angalish!
What did you expect to gain by
that
?”

“What I
did
gain—my freedom.”

Nell sat for a moment in shocked silence. “Edwina is nothing but a top-lofty, addle-brained, overweening, calculating, odious
worm
!” Nell said wrathfully.

“Edwina is a refined, cultivated, very beautiful young lady—”

“Oh—?” Nell interjected challengingly.

“—who quickly became (especially after I'd been forced to compare her with another beautiful young lady of my acquaintance) the greatest bore I'd ever known.”

Nell made a little, self-satisfied sound, very much like a purr, and smiled glowingly at the light behind the curtains. “Does that mean you … you … truly …?”

“Yes, you ninny, I do. Truly! I love you to distraction, and tomorrow morning, as soon as you come down to breakfast, I intend to take you in my arms and show you just how much!”

“But … I can't
wait
for tomorrow morning! Harry, don't you intend to show yourself
tonight
?”

“Show myself? Do you mean make an appearance? I can't. I threw away that ghost-shirt long ago.”

“I mean
come out
, you gudgeon!”

“Come
out
?” he asked in horrified disapproval. “Out
there
? Have you no
shame
, girl? We are not yet even betrothed!”

She gurgled. “That is a mere formality. In my view, you have already committed yourself irrevocably into my clutches.”

“You don't say! May I not even try to cry off?” he pleaded.

“Not a man of
honor
, sir! You told me you were a gentleman! Harry, will you
please
come out?”

“Good God, woman, it's the middle of the night! This is your
bedroom
! Why, oh why did I not pay greater heed when they told me what an outrageous little baggage you are?”

She thrust aside the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “If you don't come out, my lord, I shall dash across this room and behind those curtains, and I shall undoubtedly be knocked senseless for my pains,” she warned.

“Very well, ma'am, I'll come out if you insist,” he said grudgingly, “but remember that Harry Thorne in
the flesh
can be a great deal more dangerous than Harry D'Espry in
spirit.
”

The curtains were pulled aside, and Harry swung into the room on his crutch. As soon as he caught sight of her, sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightdress, her chestnut curls tousled, her eyes misty, her feet bare and swinging above the floor like a child's, he stopped short. His heart seemed to swell within him in an agony of tenderness.

Nell stared at him for a moment to make sure she wasn't dreaming. But he was too clearly
there
to be an illusion. The white streak in his hair, the crutch he leaned upon, the warm, almost embarrassed shyness in his eyes, the slight smile—all gave evidence of his authentic actuality. With a little cry, she leapt from the bed and ran across the room. His crutch clattered to the floor as he held out his arms and caught her to his chest.

This was no illusion, no dream. She knew it with certainty at last. His heart pounding against hers was no illusion. The broad shoulder on which her head was pressed was no illusion. The grasp which crushed the breath from her body was no illusion. Was this frightening, dizzying happiness the
danger
to which he'd referred? How foolish men were! She knew as clearly as if she could read the future that, as long as his very real arms remained tightly clasped about her, there was no danger she could not face …

Gwinnys had thought she heard voices and was sure Miss Nell must have cried out in her sleep. “I knowed it—she be nag-ridden,” Gwinnys thought, “with the wind rampin' on so.” She got out of bed and pattered across the hall. Quietly, she pushed open Nell's door. For a moment she stood gawking, scarcely trusting her own eyes. Then she silently closed the door again and ran barefooted down the hall, darted down the stairs, raced across the kitchen and out across the back hall to the Penloes' rooms. Pounding on the door, in complete disregard of the time of night, she shouted exuberantly, “Mrs. Penloe, Mrs. Penloe, wait till 'ee hear! Y' cain't
conceit
what I just seen! I'd
lay
'ee won't b'lieve me, but, oh, Mrs. Penloe, 'tis truly
arear
!”

About the Author

Elizabeth Mansfield is a pseudonym of Paula Schwartz, which she used for more than two dozen Regency romances. Schwartz also wrote an American immigrant family saga,
A Morning Moon
, as Paula Reibel, and two American history romances—
To Spite the Devil
, as Paula Jonas, and
Rachel's Passage
, as Paula Reid.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1979 by Paula Schwartz

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9774-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

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EBOOKS BY ELIZABETH MANSFIELD

FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA