Christmas Belles (12 page)

"It just so happens I once saw the ghosts of those twin
sisters myself. Does that surprise you?"

To her astonishment, Trent laughed. It was the first time
Chloe recollected ever hearing him do so. The sound was deep, masculine, and
thoroughly delightful. Or it would have been if Chloe had not felt so vexed
with him.

"No, my dear," he said, his eyes alight with
amusement. "Somehow your seeing ghosts doesn't surprise me at all."

At that moment, Trent's attention was claimed by Mr.
Lathrop. The interest in dancing had palled, and the captain's help was
required in setting up tables for whist.

After one final injunction against any more ghostly tales,
Trent sauntered off, looking so unbearably smug, Chloe longed to heave the
bolster from the settee at his head.

The man was always so insufferably sure of himself. He did
not believe in fairies or love or spirits. Just what the blazes did he put
faith in, then?

She shifted upon her stool and snatched up the poker, taking
over Mr. Doughty's task of tending the fire. As she took several sharp pokes at
the blazing logs, she set up a shower of sparks, and one flame leapt up in an
eerie vapor of blue, red, and gold. Somehow the sight inspired a vague idea in
her mind. Gradually the thought became clearer, a notion so dreadful she should
not have entertained it, not even for a second. But she felt her lips curve
into a mischievous smile.

Maybe there was nothing she could do about Trent's lack of
faith in the wee folk or the magic of love.  Chloe suppressed a soft
laugh.  But after tonight, maybe Captain William Trent would not be so
infernally sure about the nonexistence of ghosts.

Chapter Five

The mantel clock chimed one minute past midnight, and
another Christmas was gone. Trent felt a twinge of melancholy at its passing as
though something precious had just slipped through his hands. Which was a
deuced odd notion, for what he had told Chloe was perfectly true. Until this
year, he had ignored the existence of the day.

So why, then, should he feel saddened as this particular one
was about to fade into memory? Maybe because he had never spent a Christmas in
the midst of such warmth and gaiety before. The Waverly ladies were an
affectionate family, given to much hugging and kissing beneath the mistletoe
that spilled over to include anyone in their midst. Charles handled it with
great aplomb, Mr. Henry also appearing solemnly accustomed. Since Trent had
never had sisters, he found it a little embarrassing.

For too many years, there had only been his grandfather.
Trent could never remember the gruff old admiral bending discipline enough to
embrace him at Christmas or any other time. Affection had been understood but
never spoken, to be glimpsed in the fierce gleam of pride beneath bushy gray
brows, never felt in the touch of a hand.

But as this Christmas party drew to its close, Trent found
himself corralled beneath the kissing bough, being soundly kissed and wished a
happy Christmas by Emma and all her sisters. All but Chloe, of course. She
attempted to slip out of the drawing room, tugging herself free when Lucy
caught at her hand

"For shame, Chloe," she said. "'Tis you who
always insist upon having the mistletoe and you who always declared you wanted
a brother. Well, here he is. You cannot mean to neglect him."

Trent felt discomfited in the extreme, especially as Chloe
ducked her head. Hiding behind her sheen of hair, she mumbled something about
"getting an infectious sore throat" and "not wishing the captain
to take it from me."

"Well, I like that," Charles said, laughing.
"You showed no such tender concern when you kissed me and poor Reverend
Henry. I assure you, Miss Chloe, Trent has a stronger constitution than either
of us."

But after bidding a hasty good night, Chloe was already
fleeing toward the stairs. Her rejection of Trent was obvious enough to
engender an awkward silence. Flustered, Emma turned to Trent to apologize for
her sister.

"Chloe has been behaving so strangely. Perhaps all the
excitement has wearied her."

Not the excitement, Trent thought. It was him that Chloe was
wearied of. But he managed to smile at Emma and say that he did not regard
Chloe's brusque behavior in the least.

But he lied. He minded it very much. Later, as he sought out
his own bedchamber, a curious mixture of hurt and anger lodged in his breast.
He found himself wishing that he had stopped Chloe, hauled her back under the
mistletoe and—

And what? Made her bid him a merry Christmas and kiss him?
As if such a thing could ever be forced. No, Trent feared that for him such
good wishes were as elusive as one of Chloe's smiles, as the fairy folk she
hunted in the shrubbery.

Trent retired to his room, but not to sleep. Besides the
fact that Doughty was clumping about the chamber, insisting upon polishing
Trent's boots at this late hour, Trent felt far too restless.

It might have been pardonable, he thought, for a man to be
kept awake by dreaming of his intended. But he had difficulty even focusing
Emma's image in his mind. It occurred to him that he did not even know what
color her eyes were. He only knew that they weren't blue with gold-fringed
lashes, eyes that could be most winsome when their possessor was smiling

Chloe again. He grimaced. Always Chloe. He determined to
drive the dratted girl out of his thoughts as swiftly as he meant to chase
Doughty from his bedchamber. The seaman actually began a tentative whistling.

"Leave those boots till the morrow, Mr. Doughty,"
Trent said, shrugging a satin dressing gown over his nightshirt.

"But what about yer best gray coat, sir? It could use a
good brushing."

"In the morning," Trent said firmly.

"Aye, Cap'n." Doughty returned the frock coat to
the wardrobe with great reluctance. Trent had not often had to complain that
his steward was lax in his duties, but he had never known Doughty to be this
assiduous either.

Even after he closed the wardrobe door, Doughty hovered,
shifting from foot to foot.

"Anything else I can do for ye, Cap'n?"

 "No, thank you, Mr. Doughty. I mean to read for a
bit, then retire myself."

Doughty nodded glumly. He took one shuffling step toward the
door, then turned back eagerly. "I forgot to turn down the sheets for you,
sir."

"I believe I can manage to lift my own coverlets, Mr.
Doughty."

"Won't take but a moment, sir, and—"

"Good night, Mr. Doughty."

"What about me puttin' some more logs on the
fire?"

"Go to bed, Doughty," Trent snapped.

"Aye, sir," Doughty said, looking quite
crestfallen. His boots appeared weighted with lead, for all the faster he moved
to obey Trent's command.

What the deuce was the matter with the man? Trent wondered.
He almost behaved as though he were afraid to retire to his own bed.

Indeed, as Doughty reached for the brass knob, his huge hand
did tremble a little. Anyone would think from the way he rolled his eyes that
he expected to find something horrible on the other side of that door. Trent
stiffened with sudden comprehension. He forced back a laugh, his humor tempered
with vexation.

"Mr. Doughty, I promise you, no matter what Miss Chloe
might say to the contrary, you are in no peril of being visited by spirits
tonight."

" 'Course not, sir." Doughty flushed a bright red.
"Such a notion never entered my head, Cap'n." Yet for all his
bluster, he nervously licked his lips. "But that Miss Chloe, she do tell a
mighty convincin' tale, don't she, sir?"

"Convincing?" Trent scoffed. "The ghost of
one dead woman sounds like nonsense enough, but twins!"

"There be stranger things, Cap'n. One night, when I was
keepin' watch with the bosun up on deck, we seen—"

"Would that be the time I had to have the bosun flogged
for breaking into the rum ration?"

"No, sir," Doughty said indignantly.
"Leastwise, I don't think so. In any event, I saw it, too: the shape of a
phantom bird. And I was as sober as the ship's surgeon."

"Considering some of the ship's surgeons I have known,
that is hardly any recommendation."

"But, Cap'n, I'm only tryin' to tell you spirits
can—"

"Enough of this folly, Mr. Doughty. You will retire at
once. If you are that alarmed, draw the covers up over your head. It is a
well-known fact that ghosts never disturb a man hiding under a
counterpane."

"It is?"

Doughty's credulous expression snapped the last of Trent's
patience. He was beginning to fear he was going to have to take the burly
seaman by the hand and actually tuck him into bed. Crossing the room, he swung
open the door and thrust Doughty through it, bidding the man a firm good night.
Only when the steward had gone did Trent shake his head with a wry amusement.
Doughty was bold enough to face half a dozen French pirates with their sabers
drawn but shook in his boots at the mere imaginings conjured up by a slip of a
girl. Trent supposed he had better repeat his lecture to Chloe tomorrow just to
be certain she understood. Definitely no more ghost tales. She wouldn't be
pleased, but Trent doubted he could do anything to make her dislike him more
than she already did.

With Doughty gone, Trent breathed a sigh of relief, drinking
in the silence of his room. Charles, sociable creature that he was, might
deplore the early hours they kept here at Windhaven, but Trent was grateful for
a little solitude.

Reading was a pleasure he was seldom able to indulge in, and
he moved eagerly toward the small stack of books left upon the tripod table.
But as he examined the titles, he grimaced. Walpole's Castle of Otranto. Songs
of Innocence by William Blake. Samuel Johnson's Lives of the Poets.

He had not expected to find the manuals on navigation and
military tactics that were his usual fare. But he had hoped for at least a
volume of logic or history. He should have reflected that the books must have
been selected and left here for him by Emma. A lady would have no notion as to
a man's tastes.

Since he still did not feel at all tired, he settled back in
the chair and reached for Lives of the Poets. He supposed it was a history of
sorts. But as he flipped open the cover, his fingers stilled, going no further
than the flyleaf. His gaze settled upon the inked scrawl that sketched out the
name of the volume's previous owner.

Sir Phineas Waverly.

Trent checked the other two books. They were marked the
same. The books had not been placed here for his particular use. They had been
left by this chamber's previous occupant.

Dolt that he was, he should have realized sooner that this
had been Sir Phineas's room. But Emma  had said nothing, and Trent had
imagined that the master bedchamber would have been much large and grander.

If he had been thinking more clearly, he would have known at
once. This small room with its simple furnishings fit so well with what Trent
remembered of the gentle old man. He could easily picture Sir Phineas sitting
here by the fire, his spectacles perched upon his nose, reading until the
candle guttered low in its socket.

Carefully, Trent closed the book he held and returned it to
the table, feeling very much an intruder, as though he had no right to be
touching the volume, no right to even be in this room. Perhaps he had been
wrong to be so adamant with Mr. Doughty. It would seem that Windhaven had its
haunting after all.

This curious notion had no sooner passed through his mind
than Trent was startled by a muffled cry that caused the hair on the back of
his neck to prickle. He jumped as the next moment his bedchamber door crashed
open.

Doughty burst into the room, looking pale enough to be a
ghost himself. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it as though a
thousand devils lurked beyond, ready to break down the portal.

Given such an unpleasant jolt, Trent jerked angrily to his
feet. "Now, what the devil?"

"Aieee, Cap'n," Doughty wheezed, his chest
heaving. He could scarce get his words out for his terror. "I s-seen
it."

"Saw what? Your own shadow?"

Doughty lurched across the room to catch at the sleeve of
Trent's robe. "S-seen her.  One o' them ghost twins. I just took one
more peek into the hall afore I went to sleep, just to be sure it was safe. An'
there she was! Liftin' her arms and moanin'!"

"Damnation, man!" Trent attempted to shake off
Doughty's grasping fingers. "You must have had some sort of nightmare.
Now—"

He broke off as a strange sound carried to his ears. A sound
like a low groan. He knew it hadn't come from Doughty. The seaman was panting
so hard, he could barely whisper. Besides, the sound was soft, like a woman's
voice, muffled as though it came from the hallway beyond.

Even as Trent frowned at his closed door, he thought he saw
a shadow pass over the crack at the bottom. The knob rattled and  then
slowly began to turn.

"Lord above protect us!" Doughty squeaked. He
ducked behind Trent as though hoping to hide his hulking frame. "You
should'a never broke that statue of Saint Nicholas, Cap'n," he told Trent
reproachfully.

"Quiet!" Trent said, his gaze fixed intently upon
the door, which now seemed to be creaking open of its own accord. He would have
strode forward and gotten to the bottom of this nonsense at once if Doughty had
not maintained such a death grip on his arm.

"Who the deuce is out there?" Trent growled.
"Show yourself."

"No, please don't," Doughty quavered.

Outside in the corridor, upon hearing Trent's bellow, the
ghost was having second thoughts about the wisdom of her actions. The white
lead paint she had smeared over her face was making Chloe itch dreadfully, and
the gown of the cavalier's lady she had fetched from the trunk in the garret
smelled horribly musty.

But she had come too far to retreat now. Her pulse
hammering, she steadied the wax taper she held and stepped forward until she
stood framed in the threshold. The glow of the candle flame caused the veil
draped over her face to take on an eerie translucence.

The effect must have been remarkable, for even Captain Trent
appeared transfixed at the sight of her. Taking heart from his wide-eyed stare,
Chloe managed to summon up another piteous moan, well remembered from those
days of childhood toothaches.

"Go away!" she cried. "Leave this
house!"

"Aye, aye, ma'am," Doughty stammered. Trent stood,
rigid as though he had been turned to stone.

Chloe inhaled deeply to give vent to another awful wail.
That proved a great mistake, as she took too deep a breath of age-old dust
particles clinging to the gown.

"Leave this—Oh, ah—ah—" She crinkled her nose, trying
to fight the tickling sensation to no avail. She gave vent to a series of
violent sneezes, which extinguished her candle. The flame snuffed out in a tiny
trail of smoke.

Through watery eyes and the layers of her veil, she could
see Trent coming to life. A dark look crossed his handsome features as he
struggled to break free of Mr. Doughty's grasp.

A prudent ghost always knows when it is time to vanish.
Turning, Chloe took to her heels and fled as quickly as she was able in the
semidarkness of the hall, hampered by the stiff brocade skirts of the
old-fashioned gown she wore.

It had been her intent at the conclusion of her performance
to disappear down the corridor and through the door that led to the servants' stairs
in the west wing, the unused older portion of the house