The Ghost and Miss Demure (5 page)

“I see. Let’s worry about that later, shall we?”

Obedient to the pressure on her arm, Karo allowed herself to be guided to an overstuffed, wing back chair and thrust into its generous seat. Her employer walked over to a sideboard—a fine one made of rosewood, probably seventeenth-century French, her brain noted—and turned on a small lamp. It chased away the last of the creepy shadows behind what turned out to actually be a rococo desk. No one was hiding in the corner, not even a cat.

She watched Tristam pour out a generous snifter of brandy from a crystal decanter—cut glass, Venetian this time, so someone was very inconsistent with their decorating theme—and returned to her side. “Drink this.” The voice was kind but firm. She accepted the pewter goblet—early colonial—but didn’t taste the contents right away.

“Is this really Belle Ange?” She heard the disbelief in her tone and flushed again. She would never impress this man with her mental skills if she kept asking stupid questions! The humidity must be rusting her brain.

“Yes. This really is Belle Ange.”

“That’s good, I guess.” She leaned forward. “I wasn’t certain. One professional to another, this place isn’t anything like Berkeley or Westover or…well, any plantation I’ve ever seen.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. Walking back over to the sideboard, he poured a drink for himself.

“Whoever decorated must have had a bad drug habit. Quaaludes and acid, I think. Or did they just have opium back then?” Karo was aware that she was being less than politic in her observations, but couldn’t seem to stop the tactless phrases from tripping out as she stared into Tristam’s lynxlike eyes that were again on her face. “I know about this stuff because I put together an exhibit of druggies’ paintings in SF when I was still in school. We called it Opium Dreams, but it was still just twisted art. Put me off ever taking drugs, let me tell you.”

“Twisted art. Well, we all start somewhere.” The voice was polite. “Not too appropriate for stuffy old Williamstown, though.”

Had she gone as red as mulled wine? She certainly felt so. Maybe she should just shut up for a while. Karo leaned back in the old chair and sipped from the fake Revere goblet. The brandy went down like razor blades until it hit her stomach. There it stopped slicing and turned into a pleasant fire easing away some of the chill and her nerves.

“So, what do we do now?” her mouth demanded, without paying any attention to her brain’s call for quiet reflection.

Tristam topped off his brandy and didn’t answer for a moment. He replaced the bottle’s stopper and then returned to the shrinking fire, pulling a worn velvet hassock around to the front of her chair. He looked at her intently, no longer smiling.

“You know, I haven’t the faintest idea what to do with you,” he confessed. “Did you bring your purse
with you? I feel like I should ask for some ID in case you are really Alice gone seriously astray through the wrong looking glass.”

Karo frowned while she thought. “No. I left my purse in the car.” Then she brightened. “That’s what we should do. We’ll get a rope and rescue my car. Then I can show you my purse. It matches—well, used to match—my shoes.”

“Maybe later.”

She didn’t feel as discouraged by his answer as she should have. The brandy had knocked out the few props that had been maintaining her alarmed alertness, and she was feeling quite comfortable and secure in her fluffy chair. Even the auditory ripples and clangs that were remnants of the lightning strike were fading into a gentle surflike shushing.

Besides, this handsome man was her boss. If he didn’t want to get her car now, she wasn’t going to worry about it. She had the doors shut tight this time, so no more rain would get inside. Everything was fine.

“Is this a dream? You sound like a caricature of an Englishman. Or an actor. I like it,” she heard somebody say, and then watched with deep interest as her employer began to frown. It was a minimal expression, just a slight tightening of those perfect lips. Well-bred people could do that. She’d read about it in a book once.

“I am a caricature. It meets expectations and it’s good for business to sound English. Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt.” She wasn’t alarmed when Tristam leaned forward and ran
his long fingers over her scalp. Karo shivered, but it was not with cold. His hands were very warm and…nice. She leaned into them like a dog asking to be petted.

“No bumps,” he murmured.

“That feels wonderful.” She wasn’t certain that she had spoken aloud, but her employer’s mouth was at eye level and his amused lips said that she had.

Karo felt happy again, because she had made him smile. It was important that he be happy. She wanted them to have a long, productive relationship so she wouldn’t have to get another job right away.

“There’s no sign of injury. What am I to do with you, Karo Follett?” The question was rhetorical. He took another sip of brandy, apparently as bemused as she.

“We have to move my car,” she reminded him, clinging to her one practical thought. “It’s in the road. Someone might need to get by.”

He tilted his head a little to one side and continued to study her. “I don’t suppose that you’ve been drinking…”

“Certainly not!” She was indignant. “I don’t drink…often. I like ice cream better. Butter pecan. With peanut butter sauce. That’s what I have when I’m troubled.”

“Well, I certainly can’t leave you alone to wander this house of horrors while I fetch some help. And I can’t take you out to the guest cottage because it’s likely flooding as we speak,” he went on, obviously not heeding her gastronomic observation.

Karo opened her mouth to tell him that she
wasn’t going to wander anywhere by herself while it was raining and there were ghosts about, even if she wanted her purse, but he beat her to the punch.

“Yes, your car and your purse. But I don’t think that we can do anything about that this evening. Anyway, it’s doubtful that anyone will be out in this storm.”

“No? I just don’t want you to think that I’m a sluggard. It’s bad enough that my clothes are messy. And look at my shoes! They were my best pair,” she said sadly.

“I don’t think that you’re a sluggard. Only a very determined person would have kept on in that rain. You must be boiling with impatience to start this job—though I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, yes, I was. I
am.
I really wanted to come here. You have no idea. But can I—uh—can I have another drink first? Or should we make tea, hot tea? I make very good tea, you’ll be glad to know.”

“Actually, I think it would be best if I put you to bed.” His tone was meditative. He seemed to have given up on conversation.

Karo wasn’t offended. She vaguely comprehended that she wasn’t quite herself just now. The brandy had made her very sleepy and she was having trouble focusing her eyes. “Okay. Here?” She looked around the library with the highest degree of alarm that the brandy would allow. It was a sad effort, but she still protested. “I don’t like it here when the lights are off. There’s a bad shadow in the corner that gets very hot and then very cold.”

“No, not here. This room would give anyone a
cauld grue
. Come along.”

He helped her up with brisk efficiency. His hands burned on her arms. It felt like her muscles were melting. First her arm, then her back and then her legs. He was better than a heating pad.

She followed him back out into the entry hall—the one laid out for a Frankenstein revival. They walked over to the main staircase. It spiraled like an infinite corkscrew, punching its way up through the center of the stone house.

“The beanstalk,” she breathed. “I knew there had to be one.”

“Can you manage these? The other stair is almost impassable as yet.”

“Yes.” But she made no effort to climb. Instead, she looked up at the gallery that ran along the second floor of the house. After a slow inspection failed to turn up the strange vampirelike creature or any man-eating giant peering down at them, she turned back to Tristam and asked again: “Am I dreaming?”

He shook his head in a gesture more of sorrow than of negation and then scooped her up in his arms. Karo uttered a faint protest about being picked up like a load of dirty laundry, though she was quite filthy enough to fit the bill, and then relaxed in his embrace when he didn’t throw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He carried her easily against his chest just like an angel or hero should.

“Take me—I’m yours!” She giggled daringly. “Where are we going?”

“To bed. After I tuck you in, I’m going to call the doctor. He lives just down the road.”

They were walking down a long hall. Karo couldn’t make out any details, but the walls were obviously embellished with myriad long, lumpy things. Muskets perhaps? Or flails.

“He can’t come,” she reminded him. “There’s a tree in the road and my car is in the way.”

Tristam English remained patient. “There’s another road to Doctor Monroe’s house.”

“Oh, then I can go get my car,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but not just yet. I want the doctor to have a look at you.”

“I’m not hurt. It’s just scratches.” She glanced down at her shirt and was relieved to see that it was again opaque. “The daisies are gone. I’m all dry now.”

Tristam just smiled at her and shook his head.

They arrived at a set of double doors. Karo looked closely at the intricate carving six inches from her face. The indelicate relief looked a little bit like satyrs chasing naked, Rubensesque women, but that couldn’t be right. Belle Ange was a historic building. All historic buildings in Virginia were dignified and beautiful. Knowing this fact, she squinted harder, trying to make the figures change into cherubs or fruit.

Nope. They were definitely satyrs chasing—and sometimes catching—impossibly big-breasted women.

“These doors are ugly and tasteless. Do you think they were made that way on purpose?” she asked, no longer bothered by her own disjointed conversation.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Why?”

Her host crossed the semidarkened room and deposited her on the double bed without answering. She sank into the satin duvet. Karo stared up at the silk canopy in big-top colors of purple and red, and momentarily forgot her question about the carvings on the door. “Wow! It’s like the circus.”

“More like a bordello. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Vellacourts all have what I will generously call ‘eclectic taste,’ ” Tristam answered. He knelt while he slipped off her shoes, pausing to study the small hole in the right one and then peeling down her torn wet sock with great care. Karo decided to allow the familiarity since he wasn’t leering like that strange man in the library.

And his hair was so lovely—like an angel’s, she thought, her concentration fracturing yet again.

“Are you really British?” she asked his bent head. “You sound British, and I’ve been hoping that you really are. I want to work for a real Englishman.”

“Yes, I’m all ‘Rule, Britannia,’ tea and scones and the Union Jack. But I’ve lived in the States for a number of years. I hope you don’t mind the defection. After all, my ancestors did their part in the crusades and all. And I was born there.”

“No. Me, too.” She giggled, aware that her answer sounded strange. She tried to explain. “I used to live in Europe with my parents. My dad’s a historian. I am, too. Sort of. Art.”

“I know. That’s why I hired you. Let’s see. Your father would be Alex Follett.”

“You know my dad?” Karo was pleased.

“I’ve read some of his work in the
Journal of Military History
. I’m also a bit of an airplane buff.”

“He likes to write about war planes. Plenty of war in Europe. Plenty of war back here, too, but the wrong era. No planes. Just soldiers. I thought I saw some hanging in the tree out front, but it was just Spanish moss. Only, Spanish moss isn’t technically a moss,” she observed. Then politely: “Do you like Virginia?”

“Love it, except for the weather. Stand up, please.” He set her on feet long enough to pull down the covers on the bed. The lovely duvet slipped off onto the floor with a soft puff. She wanted to slide after it. It looked so soft and nest-like as it puddled on the rug.

“In you go now. I’d undress you, but I think we’d best wait for the doctor in case…Try and rest, Karo. I’m going to call Doctor Monroe but then I’ll come right back. I have to use the land-line. My cell gets no reception inside the house. I might as well be on the far side of the sun.”

“I’m really not hurt,” she told him again. “Tell the doctor I don’t want a shot.”

“Be a good girl,” was all he said before turning out the light and half closing the ugly, obscene door. His footsteps grew soft and distant and then disappeared.

Karo shut her eyes and slid immediately into a deep sleep that was haunted by strange yellow eyes and wicked satyrs that ravished her under a sky filled with weeping birch trees and a moon that looked like a bloodshot eye. She was, somewhere in the recesses of her convoluted brain,
quite surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. This might have been because the faun that finally caught her looked a lot like Tristam English. He even tasted like a coconut macaroon when she bit him on the shoulder.

An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little
before it will explain itself.

—Charles Dickens

Dawn on the morning after was a gray-green malevolence. It bulled its way through the lace sheers on the second floor of windows seeking someone to molest, and an ancient birch, stripped by the storm of all sheltering foliage except a stubborn green creeper that clung to its host like grim death, did little to impede the sun behind the light lace. The intrusive glow finally reached Karo’s goose down pillow, and then, apparently satisfied with its location, remained unmoving until Karo felt compelled to open an unappreciative eye and face the smug new day.

She groaned. She knew exactly where she was and had a painfully clear recollection of her appalling behavior the evening before. She was little comforted by the fact that her new boss had been unfailingly courteous, or that bizarre circumstances had contributed to her inexplicable behavior. Karo, more like her mother than she would ever admit, almost always practiced good manners. Massive shock was not an adequate excuse for behaving like an all-around nitwit, as Karo was certain she had.

She had a dim but utterly realistic vision of trying to sink her teeth into Tristam’s strong shoulder and making yummy noises. This had happened when he returned with the white-haired stranger and helped her to sit up in bed. She had been dreaming of a Bacchanalia where guests consumed enormous desserts instead of wine, and she had gotten confused. That last thought alone was worth a second moan. Being rude wasn’t good; mistaking your boss for a cream puff was probably unforgivable.

Thank heavens Tristam was nimble. He had even appeared to understand and forgive her confusion.

“Well, hell. This is as bad as Williamstown.” But it wasn’t. And after thirty seconds of self-mockery, her natural buoyancy brought her spirits upright and Karo let her waking eyes look around the bedroom in which she had slept.

She was mildly pleased by what she saw. The faded opulence that had repelled her the night before was still present in the tattered canopy overhead, but seen by the light of day, even if it was rather tacky, the open space still felt like a room where someone actually lived rather than a cluttered B-movie set or a museum’s Renais sance display. Searching farther, Karo cautiously rolled her head to the side and peeped around the scarlet bed curtain.

The open armoire in the corner provided the first clue as to why there seemed some relief from the previous oppressive grandeur. Someone of the male persuasion with contemporary and subdued taste in clothing had been living here. Someone
who favored thick cotton shirts and sensible woolen slacks. Someone other than a Vellacourt, and someone who must have removed all extra furnishings. The knacky tweed slacks within practically shouted Town and Country.

Karo suffered another moment of embarrassment as she realized that she was using her boss’s room. Sleeping in his bed. She had to be; he would never have put her in some other person’s private quarters without asking permission—and anyway, as far as she knew, there wasn’t any other person whose bedroom she could commandeer. They were, as he had explained over the phone, on a very tight budget. He worked on a profit-sharing basis, preferring a steady inflow of earnings over the next decade to lump sum fees.

If he hadn’t stayed in this tiny, quasi-normal haven inside Castle Frankenstein, then heaven only knew where—or under what conditions—he had slept last night. It was one more thing she was going to have to apologize for.

Deciding that there was no avoiding the morning, Karo threw back the thin sheet and rolled out of bed. Her feet felt solid on the bare wood floor. Her body was back under control, and minus yesterday’s prickings and tingles. She was glad that her extremities no longer felt like an overloaded transformer. Maybe her brain would be up to average performance, too, and if Tristam was merciful—or too desperate to fire her—perhaps she would have a chance to prove her competence.

On the down side, her pants were missing and the buttons of her blouse were undone to the
waist. She remembered uneasily that the white-haired stranger had woken her last night with a request for her to undress, something she hadn’t been able to do without help. If there had been any formal introductions, Karo had missed them, but there was little doubt that the other man was poor Dr. Monroe, dragged away from his hearth and home so that he could check to see if Belle Ange’s new employee was concussed or had forgotten to take her lithium treatments before wandering away from the asylum.

Boy! She had just staggered from strength to strength. It was embarrassing to think that there was a second witness to her fall from grace. Soon she wouldn’t just be banned from Williamstown; it would be the whole state. Not that she really could blame Tristam for asking the doctor to come. Her behavior must have seemed nearly mad, what with talking about bodies in trees and ghosts lighting fires. She just hoped that she hadn’t bitten the physician, too.

“Well, hell.” Her disgust echoed from the vaulted ceiling.

The door to a modern bathroom had been left ajar. Karo was relieved to find that there was a bathtub installed, complete with contemporary plumbing, and that a stack of clean towels was waiting by the granite pedestal sink. Someone, again probably Tristam, had brought in her purse and overnight case and thoughtfully set out her toothbrush and comb.

Karo bathed quickly in mercifully warm water using the rather masculine-smelling soap in the porcelain dish at the side of the tub. Then she
ventured back into the bedroom still wrapped in a towel, hoping to find her suitcase so that she wouldn’t have to face her new boss in a wrinkled linen shirt and calcium starched pants.

The battered luggage was waiting for her at the end of the bed beyond the pile of the red satin comforter. The vanilla smell clinging to the sheets was a constant reminder of whose territory she had blundered into, and she firmly denied herself the pleasure of burying her face in his pillow and gulping up all the delicious air. Instead she quickly unsnapped the straining locks and stood back while the leather case burst open, the taut hinges giving a nearly human gasp of relief as they were freed from their duty.

She hesitated only a moment over her many heavily creased selections, and then chose a clean pair of jeans and a navy blue pullover of knit silk. Hopefully Tristam would forgive the informality; her office clothes were about three years out of date—unless you counted her tavern wench ensemble, and aside from the fact that she never wanted to wear the thing again, it was also badly crumpled from her hurried packing job.

Karo dressed hastily and retrieved her shoes from under the bed. A few quick claps over the bathtub dislodged the worst of the gunk, but this also revealed the hole in the right toe. Perhaps a bit of home repair could save—No. She stiffened her resolve. She was going for trade-ups these days. No more settling. Into the trash they went. Karo went digging for another pair, praying that these would last rather longer than the first set. Good shoes were expensive, and there was every
indication that she might be needing her money to pay off years of therapy for mental problems.

She pulled open her purse for a bit of titivation material—she needed the added courage of a power lip color that wouldn’t fade or feather—and then, with her ablutions done, she felt as prepared to face her employer as she was ever going to be.

Returning her lipstick to her bag, she spotted her cell phone. Someone had wiped it clean, but there were bits of calcified shell embedded in the tiny dents that covered it. A quick check showed that she had no signal. Curious, she looked through her pictures, hoping to see if she had gotten a clear shot on the urn at the gate. There was nothing that showed the urns, but she had miraculously captured the lightning.

Karo shuddered. It was a reminder of how close death had come. Also, maybe it was just some weird trick of light, but the white thing rushing at her seemed to have eyes.

“No. Stop it.” She put her phone away. It was time to face the music.

She delayed only long enough to absorb the unusual view from the bedroom window. Because of the dense growth of the trees and creepers that stretched from the turnoff on Route 5 to the front of the mansion, it was impossible to see more than a small clearing at the plantation gate. It actually was a little like being Jack at the top of the beanstalk, or looking out from the world’s largest tree house. It was not an entirely pleasing sensation for someone who suffered from mild vertigo.

Even with the recent storm, Karo could see that the treetops boasted an impressive collection of cluttered webs that throbbed slowly in the warm morning air; they were doubtless inhabited by an impressive collection of spiders and their six-legged prey. But there were no bodies, corporeal or otherwise. Whatever she’d thought she’d seen yesterday night, it had to have been a hallucination. Shuddering at the memory, she stepped back from the rippled glass, letting the sheers again cover the window.

It was a good thing she didn’t take after her mother. Her mom was a world-class house keeper and inclined to view cobwebs the way most people viewed incest or infanticide. The disorder of this house and garden would make her crazy.

Karo pulled open the double doors—still ugly and obscene—and walked out onto the landing where she turned right and headed for the main stairs. Facing the scene of her crimes on an empty stomach was not the way she would have chosen to start the morning, but it wouldn’t do to get lost in the house her first day on the job and have the boss thinking that she was half-witted—at least, no more of a half-wit than he already thought her.

She didn’t hear anyone moving about below stairs, filling the smoky rafters with jolly laughter or cussing out the weather or any of the things workmen were inclined to do as they started their morning routines, which only confirmed the hypothesis that she and Tristam were alone in this great maze of a house. The tempting smell of coffee left an obvious trail to explore, and Karo
decided that perhaps it was best that they were alone. If she was for the sack, she’d rather it be done without an audience watching her beg for caffeine before being thrown out bag and baggage into the muddy yard.

Karo shut her eyes against the dusty abattoir in the hall where glass-eyed trophies stared, but opened them again when she passed through the mansion’s picture gallery. Most of the portraits needed cleaning, but Karo secretly felt that it might be best to leave them dirty. The paintings were mostly executed by artists not overburdened with talent, and a few that should have been made to apologize for their work. There was one picture that was especially hideous, but not because the artist lacked talent. On the contrary, the likeness was nearly lifelike; the somehow familiar, life-sized portrait followed her with a malevolent gaze as she crossed the room. One didn’t achieve a face like that by leading a life of benevolent kindness. Such furrows were created only by years of sneering and dissipation. Or maybe by actually being evil.

She was relieved to finally escape its scrutiny. Hurrying down a tight corridor that had to violate all contemporary fire codes, heading toward the back of the house from whence the delicious odor of coffee was emanating, she discovered her polite boss at a badly scarred work table in the middle of an incongruously modern—and pleasant—kitchen. No way could it be an original room; servants and slaves were not pampered with luxuries like windows that looked out over formal gardens, or real slate on the floor. Karo sniffed. Her
nose confirmed her theory; this room didn’t smell old and mouse-ridden like the rest of the house.

Tristam was sprawled over a generous quarter of the refectory table, calmly reading the paper as she came in, but he looked up immediately as she entered the room, folding the gazette away and giving her a long stare with his golden eyes. “Good morning.” The greeting was cheerful as he rose to his feet. He had certainly been raised a gentleman.

It was a good sign, that smile—or maybe it was just reflexive courtesy. It would be difficult to say until they actually got past the tea and toast and discussions about the weather. Of course, superficial courtesy was better than no courtesy at all.

“Uh-oh. Cat got your tongue?” The question was teasing but those yellow eyes were concerned as they loomed above her. It was heartening that he seemed concerned rather than irritated. Perhaps she wasn’t going to be canned before breakfast.

“No, my tongue is still here. More is the pity. So, good morning,” she answered at last, allowing him to seat her. The faint smell of vanilla that surrounded him had her appetite stirring.

He chuckled and turned away to prepare something at the professional-sized, sparkling brass espresso maker. Cappuccino. That was what he’d been drinking. If nothing else, her nose was obviously functioning again.

“How do you take it?”

“As strong as possible,” she told him. “Make it an Italian two to one.”

“Good Italians drink three to one.”

“This is an emergency. Hit me hard.”

He smiled the same attractive smile that she had seen last night and set the tiny cup in front of her. It was not an antique mug, just rather old. Pure Goodwill bargain basement crockery. Maybe he didn’t trust her with the good stuff.

“Thank you,” she said as he turned away.

“How do you feel this balmy a.m.?”

“Aces. Not that I was feeling any pain last night,” she admitted ruefully. “I want to apologize for crashing in on you that way. I assure you that I don’t usually behave like that.”

“Apologize? Whatever for?”

“Well…” She looked at him, standing there bright-eyed and neat as wax, and felt more than ever that she had been unforgivably discourteous. “I think I recall being very rude. For one thing, I said that your house was hideous.”

“It is hideous. And it’s not my house. It’s just the one I’ve been hired to turn into a tourist trap—and on an impoverished budget,” he said.

Karo snorted into her coffee cup and tried not to laugh. Her other employers had been given to rather loftier goals and higher-flying forms of rhetoric when describing their jobs. Tristam seemed to have no intellectual pretensions about “preserving history” for future generations who couldn’t care less about what went on in the “good old days.”