Page 8 of The Witching Hour
Ada let out a long, slow sigh, but she was watching him closely. “It’s naught but the grief playing tricks on ye, my lord.”
That was the logical explanation, yes, but for all that it made the most sense, it wasn’t the truth. “No, Ada. It’s not the grief. It was real, I tell you!Shewas real.” He took a step toward the housekeeper, his hands flexing at his sides. “But you know that already, don’t you? I’d wager you know a good deal more about this business than you’re letting on.”
It wasn’t as unfair an accusation as it might have been had Ada and Silas been any other two servants, but they weren’t just an ordinary housekeeper and caretaker. They were…well, it sounded as mad to say it as it did to claim he’d seen his bedridden wife in the looking-glass last night, but the two of them were connected to this castle, a part of it as much as the weathered old stones and the sixteenth century tapestries that hung on the walls were.
They wereofit, in a way that defied explanation.
Ada was quiet for a moment, her hands on her hips, her gaze fixed on his face, but instead of angry or pitying, her stare was cool, assessing. “What time of night was it, my lord, when ye saw her?”
“I woke up at a quarter to midnight, and—”
“Woke to what?” Ada interrupted. “Begging yer pardon, my lord, but what woke ye?”
“Music. I heard someone playing the pianoforte. Schubert’sTrout Quintet. It’s one of Sylvie’s favorites.”
“Playing, was she?” Ada muttered, more to herself than to him.
“Yes. I saw her too, or I saw something in the looking-glass, a flicker of movement, and I—I felt her breath on my neck.” The soft drift of it had sent shivers tripping down his back, just as it always did.
“Did ye now?” Ada tapped a finger against her lips, her gaze shifting to Sylvie’s pale face. “Well now, I’ll be. I wasn’t sure if the lass had it in ’er, but I s’pose she answered that question, right enough. Stronger than she looks, this one, but then she’s always been a stubborn lass.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening, Ada? Is Sylvie...is there a chance she might…” James swallowed, uncertain how to say the next words. How did a man ask if his wife, who was as close to death as anyone he’d ever seen, might be wandering about the castle at night?
Fortunately, Ada took his meaning at once. “As to that, I can’t rightly say, my lord. There’re no guarantees with such things, ye see, but mayhap the lass hasn’t quite made up ’er mind to depart this world. It’s rare enough, but I’ve seen it once or twice over the years.”
“Seen what?” Hope and fear were clawing at James like a skeletal hand wrapped around his throat.
“Seen a soul caught between this world and the next. Her ladyship is wandering, ye see, but them whose souls linger can only do so during the witching hour, when we’re suspended between night and day. That’s why ye can feel her then, and glimpse her in the glass. Looking glasses connect this world to the beyond, my lord.”
“But why…how do I get her back?” He must trulyhavegone mad, to be entertaining such a notion, but he’d do anything to have another chance to make her happy.
Or perhaps he simply couldn’t bear to believe Sylvie had truly left him.
“Hope, my lord. Give ’er some hope, some reason to stay, and she may come back to ye. Tell ’er ye’ll put her first from now on, and it might be enough to keep ’er here.”
James seized his wife’s hand again, and sank to his knees beside her bed. “Please, Sylvie. Please come back to me, and I promise you I’ll never leave you again. I swear it, Sylvie.”
“That’s it, my lord.” Ada gave a nod of satisfaction. “We’ll leave you to take care of her. Mayhap ye could talk to her a bit more. Mayhap she might listen to ye, if ye do it sweet enough. Tell ’er ye love ’er, eh? There’s not a lady alive or dead who doesn’t want to hear that.”
James sucked in a sharp breath, fighting back sudden tears. Hedidlove her—he’d always loved her. Surely, she’d known that? Even when they’d been at odds, surely, she must have known he’d never stopped loving her? “Will it help to talk to her?”
“It can’t do any harm, my lord.” Ada’s gaze roamed over Sylvie’s face before she turned back to James with a strange smile. “It can’t do any harm.”
He waited until Ada and Silas left the room, closing the door with a quiet click behind them before he turned his attention back to his wife. “Sylvie, I…”
That was as far as he got before his throat closed, the words dying on his tongue. He was quick with words when it came to giving speeches in the House of Lords, but clumsy with emotions. He’d never known how to say what was in his heart. Was it any wonder Sylvie had doubted his love?
What could he possibly say to her, to persuade her to stay with him?
God, he didn’t know, so he simply began talking without thinking, nonsense at first, whatever came into his head, but it wasn’t long before he realized he was describing the first time he’d ever talked to her, when he called on her the day after the Christmas party.
“I half-expected you to refuse to see me, but you waltzed into your father’s drawing room that morning as if you’d been expecting me. You were wearing a white dress with tiny pink flowers scattered over it that day. Do you remember that dress, Sylvie? You wore it with a pink sash, and I remember thinking you looked as pretty as a flower yourself in it—as pretty as a summer rose.”
He went on and on, painting pictures of the earliest days of their courtship with his words, delving deeply into his mind for memories he’d half forgotten, and things he’d never told her before—about how he’d felt the first time they’d danced together, and he’d held her in his arms, and the moment about six weeks into their courtship, when he’d taken her on a picnic in the fields behind her house, and lay with his head in her lap while she read to him from a book of poems.
Had it been Keats? Or Byron? He could no longer recall, but what he did remember with perfect clarity was that it had been that moment, when they’d been lying upon the grass with daisies surrounding them, that he first realized he’d fallen in love with her.
So, he told her about it now, about how his love for her came over him as gradually as the morning sun rising in the sky, pale at first, hardly noticeable, but growing brighter with every moment until he could no longer remember what it had been like before it was there, its rays warming every inch of his skin.
