The Solemn Bell (6 page)

As if on cue, the clock on the mantel rang midnight. Twelve tinny bells echoed through the room, and both Miss Grey and Captain Neill paused to listen.

After the last chime, she squeezed his sweating, trembling hand, and said, “There. That’s midnight. The night is half over already. Soon, it will be dawn, and you’ll be safe. This will all feel like a bad dream. You won’t even remember what you were so frightened of.”

Not remember? How could he forget?
 

“Miss Grey, I’m not a child afraid of the dark. My fears haunt me, day and night. Don’t you understand?” He looked into her blank eyes. “No, of course not—how could you, you sweet, sheltered girl? You don’t know anything of destruction or addiction. Have you ever heard of opium? Morphine?”

“Morphine is for pain.”

“Yes! And I am in agony. I don’t eat. I barely sleep. I spend every minute of my life praying for the death that I somehow dodged in the trenches,” he said. “Oh, I’ve seen the doctors and the specialists. Spent months in hospitals and convalescent homes, being shocked and prodded, and encouraged to talk about my
feelings
. Nothing helped, except one thing—morphine.”

He jerked his hand from Miss Grey’s grasp, too disgusted with himself to let her touch him. His skin was pallid and clammy. Just talking about the medicine made his body crave it once more. Brody braced himself for a fresh wave of sickness. “A London doctor first prescribed barbiturates. Said the tablets would help me cope. But they weren’t enough. I needed more. After a particularly difficult episode, I was given an injection of morphine. The effects were remarkable—I was calm, quiet, and, most importantly, free of the demons that had plagued me for so long,” he explained. “The problem, you see, is that I’ve become quite dependent on it. When the needle is withheld from me, I become…sick.”

“Then can’t you go to hospital and get more?”

He almost smiled. “There are easier ways to get morphine than going to hospital.” When Miss Grey looked confused, he added, “Unscrupulous doctors, chemists with a sideline, back alley dealers, and dens in Chinatowns all over Britain. In fact, one can get it almost anywhere, at any time.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, it is—terrible and wonderful, all at once.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. “I wish I’d never heard of it.”

“Then I’m sorry to be the one to teach you. But I thought you ought to know the sort of man you’re dealing with.”

He couldn’t lie to her anymore. She’d been so honest and open about her blindness that he felt like a cad hiding his sickness from her now. He wanted Miss Grey to know the real Captain Broderick Neill, so that no one could ever accuse him of misleading her. If they were going to be friends—or more than friends, or nothing to each other at all—she would go into it knowing everything.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Miss Grey. Talking with you tonight has made me believe that perhaps I’m not a slave to my demons after all. Despite my car crash, and my morphine withdrawal, I’ve enjoyed sitting here with you in the dark more than I’ve enjoyed any moment of my life. Does that make sense?”

She nodded. “I understand completely.”

Brody reached for her hands. “Don’t you feel the same?”

“I—yes, of course. I think so.”

He’d never before felt a thrill from holding a girl’s hand. Feeling Miss Grey’s ghostly, white fingers between his own large, calloused palms was like a prize he’d worked very hard to earn. He wasn’t a chaste man, but tonight he felt like a schoolboy walking out with his first sweetheart.
 

There
was
something different about this woman. She made him want to be a better man.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For a while, she forgot Captain Neill was sick and injured. Strange how something so obvious to her when they first met was slowly becoming no longer noticeable. He had been sick a few more times, and even complained again about the demons in the corners, but he no longer hung on the brink of death. He was able to talk and laugh, and even flirt with her.
 

In fact, he spoke to her as if she were any other girl. For one night, he was simply a man, and she was simply a woman, and their world was blessedly normal.
 

Outside, however, the storm continued to rage. Lightning flashed, and thunder clapped. Sometimes, she jumped. Sometimes, he jumped. But, now they were able to laugh it off. It wasn’t so bad to be afraid, as long as they had each other to keep them safe. If the house caught fire, she knew Captain Neill would not leave her in the flames.

Angelica wished it would always be so.
 

Soon, daylight would come. The shadows would be driven out, and he, like them, would flee this place. Everyone always did. For who would condemn themselves to a world of everlasting darkness, when there was brilliant sunlight just outside these walls?

She clutched her ancient, woolen cardigan tighter, feeling a chill. Once—just once—she wished for warmth, for light.
 

Angelica didn’t resent Freddie or Mother for leaving her, and would not hate Captain Neill when the time came for him to go, too. Oh, he might imagine himself infatuated with her, and she might even believe him for a time—she wanted so badly for it to be true—but men like Captain Neill did not chain themselves to girls like her. And, she supposed, any sweet, innocent girl should know better than set her heart on such a wreck of a man. Their parting might pain her, but it was for the best.

Angelica shivered as she sat, listening to the incessant ticking of the clock. Counting down every loathsome second, helpless to shut it out of her mind. But, as she sat there, wishing her ears would fail her too, another sound began to creep through.

Footsteps.
 

They were not Captain Neill’s. And, yet…who else’s could the be?

He heard them, as well. “My God! You can’t tell me there’s not someone else here!” Captain Neill leapt to his feet, and stormed across the room. He stopped by the open doorway, to—she presumed—peer out into the hallway beyond.
 

Angelica followed the sound of his voice. She turned in his direction. “There is no one.”

“Miss Grey! Who is upstairs?”

This time, Angelica stood, too, though the did not go to him. “This is madness. The storm is playing tricks on our ears. It’s…oh, I don’t know…tree limbs scratching the walls. Or…or, rain beating down through the attics. Whatever it is, it isn’t another person marching around upstairs.”

“You said ‘our ears’. Our ears! This is no product of my morphine-addled mind. You hear it, too, and your mind—clear as a bell—is telling you it can be nothing
but
another person marching around upstairs.”

“No. My mind is telling me that, before you arrived, I had nothing to fear inside my own home. The threat was always outside. The world. The war. The asylum. But now, now I’m terrified of something in here!” She grabbed at the back of the chair for support. The sound was there, pounding like a hammer overhead. She could not shut it out any more than she could convince herself it was nothing but the rain. “What evil have you brought into my home?”

He crossed the carpets to stand before her. “I never meant to put you in danger. Is there somewhere you can hide?”

“Hide from what? From whom?” She reached for him, finding his hand without faltering. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere—yet. But if my misery is somehow manifesting itself into…whatever is up there…then I don’t want you around me. Find somewhere to wait out the night, and then come find me in the morning.”

Angelica held firmly to his trembling hand. “I won’t! If I leave this room, you are coming with me. We can go down to the kitchens. It’s safe there. It’s where I sleep. We can bar the door.”

“You’d risk locking yourself in with
me?
”
 

She pulled him toward the panel in the wall. “Come.”

Never stumbling, Angelica led Captain Neil across the room. They weaved between the heavy, Victorian clutter to the opening, and then proceeded down the corridor. He ducked the cobwebs and low-hanging pipes that ran along the servants’ area. For the first time, she realized how tall he must be. Taller than she was, certainly, for she never had to duck.

“This way,” she said, counting the paces of the passage until she reached the kitchen stairs. She guided him down. Angelica didn’t need to use the handrail, but she slowed her steps for his sake. He was sick, and weakened. Suffering from vile hallucinations.
 

How easy it would be to stumble with the Devil on one’s back.

At last, they reached the kitchens. She shut the door behind them, and barred it with a heavy timber. Their last line of defense was sturdy, but not impregnable. If whatever was upstairs wanted them badly enough to kick the door in, it could bloody well have them.

Angelica went to the basin and splashed water on her face. Funny how she’d originally wanted only to keep Captain Neill out, but had now led him right into her own private space. What in God’s name was she thinking, bringing him here?

“We should be safe until morning,” she said, quietly.

He seemed not to have heard her. Instead, Captain Neill walked the room, his footfalls echoing off the tiled walls. It was a little disconcerting, because she couldn’t tell exactly where he was in the space. He could be near the worktable, or perhaps by the range. He could be in the dumbwaiter, for all she knew.

He inspected her quarters. “So this is your little nest? It’s surprisingly warm down here.”

“The stove is very efficient.”

“Oh, rather.” He gave the blackened, cast iron beast a fond pat. “You keep it running yourself?”

“It’s easier to manage than, say, a fire in the grate. I only have to feed it once or twice a day.”

This seemed to please him. Grilling her about her daily minutiae likely kept his mind off his demons. He rummaged through the assorted utensils and cooking pots arranged just overhead. “I can’t imagine you cooking.”

“Admittedly, I don’t do much. I’m terrified to even boil water. But I get by.”

He ceased clattering. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

Angelica felt the momentary silence like a lead weight on her chest. “Well, please make yourself comfortable. There isn’t much, but you’re welcome to whatever you like. There’s a stool by the stove, if you need to sit.”

“Thank you. Would you mind terribly if I washed up?”

She remembered he was covered in blood, dirt, sweat, and sick. “Oh, please do. I mean, not for my sake, of course. But…if you want to.” She laughed nervously. If it was awkward having a stranger in her drawing room, it felt doubly so entertaining him in what amounted to her bedchamber.
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

He couldn’t be truly possessed, could he? Brody heated the pot of water on the range, taking comfort in the distraction of such a mundane task. He dared not dwell too long on the fact that he’d brought the Devil into this innocent girl’s home.

Sweet Angelica Grey. She was too good to leave him to face his demons alone. She’d knowingly thrown her lot in with his, bringing him down into her private living space. He understood now why the rest of the house was in disrepair—she’d focused her energies on making this humble kitchen into a home.

It was clean, compared to the rest of the place. Pots, knives, and utensils sat in their proper places, with remarkably little clutter on the worktable. The items necessary to her daily life were laid out where she could easily find them. Miss Grey liked neatness and order. Brody imagined that, if he moved one fork an inch to the right, she’d know it. Perhaps that was the only way she could navigate her darkened world.

He could never live blindly. How she managed was a miracle to him. And to do it alone…

Taking the pot of heated water off the burner, Brody stole a glance at her across the worktable. She stood, her hands folded in front of her. Her lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. She looked almost like an automaton that someone forgot to wind. As if he could simply give the key at her back a twist, and she would burst into action.

“Miss Grey, could I borrow a flannel and some soap?” he asked.

She turned to fetch him the items, and then slid them across the worktop. Remarkable. She knew exactly where everything was. Even more interesting—she knew exactly where he was, too.

Brody heaved off his heavy coat. It was warm enough in the kitchen that he did not need the thing. He was glad, because it reeked. He doubted the expensive Burberry’s greatcoat would ever come clean.

He wondered if Miss Grey minded that he undressed in front of her. She listened, of course. He could tell by the almost imperceptible tilt of her head. She tracked each article of clothing as he pulled it from his ragged body. When he finally stood bare before her, Brody knew that the flush on her skin was not from the heat of the stove.

The realization thrilled him.
 

He hadn’t wanted a woman to want him in a long time. When he felt the need, there was always some girl prepared to slake his lust, but it had never mattered whether they’d found him attractive. No, what those girls were after had nothing to do with sex or love. Yet, he wished for nothing less from the beautiful Miss Grey.

Blood and caked mud ran down his body in filthy, slimy rivulets. His skin had already started to bruise, and even the simple act of washing himself was agony. He’d laughed earlier when she’d told him he needed a bath, but, truthfully, Brody felt self-conscious. The last thing he wanted was to offend her with his stench, especially now that he felt the urge to get close to her.

With the blood and stale sweat gone, he slipped his shirt over his head, and buttoned up his trousers. He poured the dirty wash-water out, and vainly tried to tidy up the mess he made. He did not want Miss Grey to slip and fall on the slick slate floor where he’d dripped.

“Leave it,” she said, suddenly. “It can wait until morning.”

Brody looked up. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, she was arrestingly beautiful. He wanted to go to her, to pull her down on her pathetic pallet on the floor, and make love to her. She wanted it, too. Brody felt certain that, even as a sweating wreck of a man, he could seduce her. He could have her in his arms, with her faded, moth-eaten skirts tossed over her shoulders, before she realized her mistake.