1 A Spirited Manor (2 page)

"D
id you sleep well last
night, ma'am?" Willard asked.

Clara sat in the dining room,
sipping her tea.  Nan made her a most excellent breakfast.  Clara was sure it
must have been to try and show her new mistress all that she was capable of. 
It was quite dear and Clara wished that she were not so tired so that she could
be more appreciative.  She took a bite from her toast.  "Unfortunately,
not at all.  I had the strangest dream," she replied, "and it kept me
up the rest of the night."

"Really?" he said with
polite sympathy.

"I dreamt someone called my
name, and then that one of the windows was open.  In this dream, my room was so
frightfully cold, it felt like going into a winter snowstorm without a wrap. 
It seemed so real, I actually got out of bed to close the pane."

Willard fumbled the tongs, and
they clanked upon the platter.  His face turned red in embarrassment. 
"Apologies."

"None needed,
Willard."

He brought the plate over. 
"This house can become quite drafty at night," he said as she helped
herself to some eggs.  "I shall make sure that we heat your bed extra warm
tonight."

"Oh, it is quite all
right.  I am afraid that since my late husband's death, sleep has not been my
friend.  The fact I rested at all is a sign of the comfort and safety you and
Nan have made me feel here."

She wondered how cruel his
former employer had been, for just those few kind words made him practically
beam with pride.  He was quick to hide it, but she saw.  He immediately seemed
to want to prove her faith well-founded and fussed.  "Still, it will not
do at all.  We shall make sure to send you to bed with warm milk tonight and
see if we can't chase away those dreams."

"That would be quite
lovely," Clara said.  She pushed back from the table.  "Please tell
Nan that breakfast was wonderful and she has set the bar quite high.  Now, I
feel the need for a bit of a stroll.  If you will please excuse me."

"Of course, ma'am."  Willard
followed her to the door.  From out of nowhere, he somehow had her hat,
parasol, gloves, and purse in hand and ready.  He passed them one-by-one to her
as she put them on.  "Shall we expect you home for lunch?"

Clara stared outdoors, unsure of
her answer.  She realized she had no place to be.  No one to visit.  No errands
to run.  All was taken care of, and she wondered if she should even go outside
at all.  It would be so much easier to close the shades and sit in the
darkness.  She looked over at Willard, and realized that she did not want such
a kind and caring soul to see her in such weakness.  Already she knew that he
would not let her hide.  He would take her gloomy spirit personally, as some
sort of failing on his part, and that would not do at all.  She managed a stiff
smile, as if somehow she could cover the terror she felt about finding a way to
pass all the hours ahead of her.  "No... no, I believe that I shall be out
all day.  I shall return tonight for dinner," she replied.

He gave her a bow.  "Very
well.  We shall be sure to have something warm and delicious waiting for you by
six o'clock."

She nodded.  "Thank you,
Willard."

And then she stepped out into
the sunlight.

T
he hours seemed to stretch
inexorably before her, each moment ticking by painfully slow.  Usually, she
would just lie in bed, waiting for another day to pass.  She had not even
realized that it was spring.  She wandered down to the public park, buying herself
a bag of crumbs to feed to the ducks.  They seemed appreciative and clamored
about her until the bag was empty, and then were gone as quickly as they
appeared.  She watched as couples strolled and children played.  She slipped
through them like a ghost, none even acknowledging her presence, her gown of
black seemingly a camouflage which hid her from joy-filled eyes.  She tried to
find interest in gazing upon the blooming tulips and daffodils.  She wandered
into the zoo, but the bears and tigers were sleeping in their cages.  She sat
upon a bench and realized that it was barely noon.

She left the park and walked
along the boulevard, its wide lanes filled with trolley cars and hansom cabs. 
There were shops whose windows were filled with trinkets, but nothing which
tempted her to go in.  She was caught in a crowded clump of businessmen as the
lunch hour struck and, uncaring, let herself be swept along.  She could barely
see over their shoulders, when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw
a man hurry by.

“Thomas?” she whispered.  She
knew it could not be him, but this man’s shape, his coloring, his carriage... for
a moment she wondered if Thomas’s death could have been all a terrible
misunderstanding.  She rushed to catch up, trying to push her way politely
through the throng.  But by the time she broke free, he was gone.

Her heart fell as she stood
there, a passerby jostling her elbow.  She lifted her eyes as she tried to force
down the disappointment, and they fell upon the marquee for a vaudeville house. 
It seemed a godsend.  For the cost of a single coin, she could sit quietly in a
chair for as long as she wished with no one to trouble her.  She would have a
good answer when someone asked how she spent her day.  Whether she was amused
by the acts or not made no difference.  She could escape, could hide within the
crowd, and be as alone as she wished in plain sight.

Gladly, she paid the booth and
clutched her ticket.  She walked into the lobby and purchased a paper cone
filled with peanuts.  She walked into the theater with its velvet seats and
curtains.  It was busy, but by no means full.  She found a seat in the back and
far from any other guests.  She sat down, feeling as if she could breathe for
the very first time all day.

The performers were talented,
first a brother-and-sister duo who sang and danced their way across the stage. 
Then an acrobat troop that tumbled and juggled.  A diva stepped into the
limelight and sang a song of sorrow.  Clara could tell the woman had no idea
what it meant.

The master of ceremonies took
the stage after the diva, clapping enthusiastically as he tried to rally the
audience from their stupor.  "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that
those faint of heart leave the premises.  Our next act shall tear aside the
veil of life and death, shall reveal to you the mysteries of the world beyond! 
Please join me in welcoming one of the most powerful mediums of our age, Wesley
Lowenherz!"

Clara sat forward in her chair
as the man stepped onto the stage.  She found herself regretting that she chose
a seat so far away.  He was tall, with a square jaw and broad shoulders.  He
had auburn curly hair which extended into the longer sideburns that were all
the rage in fashionable circles.  But beyond that, she could not make out more
of his face.  The footlights threw strange shadows upon him and the greasepaint
morphed his features so that she knew she would not recognize him off stage.  But
there was something about him which made her feel as if she was wrapped in a
warm blanket, swaddled safely from all harm.

"Ladies and
gentlemen," he began.  "I come before you to reunite you with loved
ones passed.  To answer your questions of life and death.  I come not to bring
pain, but to bring healing, to give hope to the hopeless and to let you know
you are not alone."  He lifted his forefingers to either side of his
temples and closed his eyes.

Clara's heart caught in her
throat.  She knew what he was going to say before he said it, but sat paralyzed
as the words came out.

"Is there someone here who
has lost a loved one?  A gentleman perhaps?  I am sensing a letter.  ‘T’.  A
name that begins with ‘T’?"

It was all that Clara could do
to not leap from her seat, to beg him to tell her more.  It was equally as impossible
to keep from fleeing the theater, to run from this man who could see more than
what a man should see.  She did not want to share her loneliness and misery
before a paying crowd, those who would dismiss a message from her Thomas as
nothing but a charlatan's trick.  And yet, if it was her Thomas, if it was her
one opportunity to speak to him when he left her so all alone...  She was
frozen by fear and uncertainty.

"A gentleman whose name
begins with an ‘T’?"

She felt her hand beginning to
raise, the ache to call out that yes, it was her, this message was for her, rose
in her throat, but just as she summoned the courage, a woman close to the stage
stood up.  "Toby?  Is it my Toby come to say hello to his old mum?"

The man held out his hand. 
"Indeed, Madame!  Toby!  Please, join me on the stage so that I may give
you the message he has traveled from the grave to bring to you!"

Clara did not know whether the
feeling which struck her heart was relief or terrible sadness.  She clapped
dutifully with the rest of the audience as the old woman toddled up the
stairs.  The rest of the act was a blur as Clara gathered her things, suddenly
desperate to be away from there.

She rose from her seat and made
her way to the aisle.  Just as she was about to leave, Wesley held out his
hands.  "Wait!  Another message has come!"

She turned and it seemed as if
he were looking straight at her, even though she knew he could not see into the
darkness of the audience beyond the haze of the footlights.  Still, he seemed
to almost lock eyes with her as he said, "There is a woman here tonight. 
You know who you are.  And your loved one says, 'Do not fear to live and love
again, for watching your sadness is worse than death.  Do not die while you are
still alive, my love.'"

And with that, Clara fled.

S
he arrived home in a daze.  She
knew that Willard spoke with her, that Nan prepared a lovely dinner, that
somehow she was led up to her room and dressed for bed.  Nan ran a metal pan
filled with coals over her sheets to make them toasty, and a warm glass of milk
sat on the bed table which she dutifully drank.  She lay down in her bed, the
words of that stage medium still ringing in her head.  She could barely
remember his name, and yet the way he looked at her, the way he knew... she
could not believe that the message was for anyone but her.  She could not
believe that it was anything but a message from Thomas.

He wanted her to live and love
again.

"How, my love?" she
asked the darkness.  "How do you expect me to go on without you?"

But tonight, she did not cry
herself to sleep as she had every night for the past six months.  Tonight, she
curled on her side and thought of the words given to her.  If Thomas was here
beside her, she would never wish to trouble him, to make him feel that her
sadness was worse than death.

She did not realize that she
fell asleep.  Instead, she fell into the dream with Thomas's words repeating
themselves again and again in her mind. 

And then she saw him.  She
opened her eyes and he was sitting in the chair by the fire, watching her
sleep.  He looked like he did when they first met, so young and strong.  His
dark blonde hair was combed neatly, the sides short from where she had trimmed
it herself.  He was muscle and sinew in the smoldering embers.  She could gaze
upon him forever, at his high cheekbones and strong nose and perfectly square
jaw.  She thought every inch of him perfection, even that terrible mustache she
always teased that they must shave someday. 

"I miss you," she
whispered.

He smiled and in that smile was
all the love that they had shared together over the years.  "Watching your
sadness is worse than dying.  Do not die while you are still alive, my love. 
Do not fear to live and love again, Clara."

"I knew that it was
you," she said.  "I knew you were trying to talk to me earlier."

"Then listen," he
replied.

"I do not want to live
without you," she confessed.

He crossed to the bed and perched
upon the mattress, but it did not move as he sat.  "Love again, and soon,
my Clara.  Have no fear of letting me go."

"It hurts."

"Then let someone help heal
your pain.  Let someone remind you why living can be a joy.  Let someone see
that spark of yours that I found irresistible.  Love.  And know that it is what
I want for you..."  He reached out, as if to touch her cheek. 
"Live... and love... for me..."

"I shall try..." she
whispered, aching for just one moment more.

But before he could reach her, he
disappeared.  Instead, she was running, running down that same dark hallway. 
Only this time, a terrible wind was blowing, was grasping at her and trying to
knock her off her feet.  She knew there were things in the darkness.  She could
see their red, glowing eyes.  She could make out their terrible shapes.  But
still she ran.

Suddenly, a feminine voice cut
through the terror.  "Clara," the girlish voice called.  "Clara,
I need your help!"

Clara stopped in the maze,
listening for the voice to lead her where she needed to go.

"Clara..." came the
whisper again.

Clara opened her eyes.  The room
was bathed in a dim blue light, almost too dim to see.  Clara sat up in her bed
and asked, "Who said that?"

The form appeared as if Clara
was looking at the surface of a glassy lake and something was floating up from
the bottom.  As it became clearer, the blue glow in the room became stronger
until Clara could see everything as if it were bright as day.  But as the light
grew, the temperature dropped, and Clara found herself shivering and her eyes
watering from the cold.  Still the form came until Clara could see it was a
girl with a face as round and pale as the moon.  She was younger than Clara, perhaps
fourteen or fifteen years old.  She was plump and healthy, dressed in a gauzy
purple dress, but her skin was unearthly white.  Her strawberry blonde hair was
braided and pinned to her head, and she looked at Clara with shy uncertainty.

It was at this moment that Clara
realized her eyes were open and they were actually seeing this strange
apparition.  It wasn't just some dream.  She crawled to the edge and looked
down.  This stranger was floating. 

Clara screamed.

She leapt out of bed and ran
into the hallway.  Almost immediately, she heard pounding steps from the floors
below.  Willard and Nan raced towards her, Willard carrying a fireplace poker
and Nan carrying a light.

"What is it, ma'am?"
he asked, ready to face whatever had made Clara scream.

Clara pointed at her room, her
heart pounding, unable to form complete sentences.  "There is a girl.  She
is dressed in purple.  She is floating.  In my room!"

Willard and Nan looked at one another,
exchanging a strange glance.  Willard took the lamp, squared his shoulders and
walked into the room.  Nan scooped Clara into her arms to give her comfort, and
Clara was grateful for the warmth.  Willard came out, the poker lowered and his
stance much more relaxed.  "I looked in every corner and checked
everywhere, ma'am.  I believe your midnight visitor has gone."

Clara looked at Nan in confusion
and walked into the room.  Willard had spoken the truth.  There was no one
there.  She turned to the two.  "But I saw her!"

Nan patted Clara's hand and led
her to bed.  She helped her get her legs under the covers and tucked her in. 
She brushed back Clara's hair and said, "I know you did.  She was just a
dream, though.  Go to sleep and try to forget all about her.  I have a feeling
she will not be back tonight."

Clara stared at where the girl
had stood.  "I know she was here.  I saw her.  She was right there."

Nan and Willard made for the
doorway.  "Of course you did.  Rest.  We'll figure it all out in the
morning."

And then the two closed her
door.

Clara lay awake, staring at the
ceiling.  She wasn't one to tell tales, to be frightened by nightmares.  She
wondered if she was losing her mind, if perhaps it had all been too much and
now she was not only condemned to this living, but condemned to hallucinations
and flights of fancy.

She rolled over so that she did
not have to look at where the girl stood.  Try as she might, though, she was
unable to fall asleep.  The girl's pleas for help rang in her ear almost as
true as when the girl had spoken them.  Clara kept glancing over to check to
see if it was just a trick of the darkness, but the girl did not reappear and
everything seemed as it was.

Clara knew better, though.