1 A Spirited Manor (3 page)

W
illard placed the plate before
her, a light breakfast of poached eggs and toast.  Clara fought to keep her
eyes open. The remaining night had been spent wide awake, and she was feeling
the effects of it today.

"I apologize for waking
you, Willard," she said.

He gave her a bow and said in
his gruff voice.  "No need to apologize.  A new home oftentimes can create
strange dreams.  I must confess, I was glad it was nothing more.  My ability to
chase off ruffians with a poker has, I am afraid, decreased with my age."

Clara picked up her tea cup and
took a sip.  "We shall have to get you a pistol then."

"And my eyesight is even
worse."

Clara imagined Willard firing
blindly in his dressing gown and chuckled.

"It is good to see a smile
on your face, ma'am," he said.

She nodded, suddenly aware that
the corners of her mouth had turned up for a moment.  It was a strange
feeling.  It was no more than a polite chuckle, but even that was something she
had not done for awhile.  "I owe you my thanks again, it seems," she
replied.

Willard did not say any more. 
Instead he changed the subject.  "Do you have plans for the day,
ma'am?"

She shook her head.  "Not
really.  I will most likely need to have a lie down this afternoon."

"Well, we shall have to
have a talk with your dreams and tell them not to wake you this time."

"Willard?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Have you ever seen a
ghost?"

He became very still and lowered
his tray upon the sideboard.  He did not look at her as he spoke, as if hiding
something he did not feel someone should see.  "I cannot say, ma'am."

"You have, haven't
you...?" she pressed, not letting him disappear into the falsehood he was
trying to spin.

"Like I said, my eyesight
is not as it once was, and the mind often plays tricks."

"Tell me what you saw,
Willard," Clara asked as she spooned her egg.

He stood stiffly with his hands
clasped behind his back.  He stared straight ahead.  "Once I thought I saw
a girl with brown hair, almost a child-like creature, in the hallway.  I was
hanging a mirror and thought I saw her out of the corner of my eye.  I looked
in the mirror, though, and saw nothing.  I looked again to where I thought she
had been standing and she was gone.  It was probably only a shadow."

"How strange," said
Clara.  "Nothing else?"

"No, ma'am.  She
disappeared and I went about my business."

"Thank you for confiding in
me, Willard."

Her gratitude seemed to put him
at ease, this shared moment of secrets opening a door of friendship which
perhaps had not been opened before.  He smiled at her.  "Do not worry
about your midnight visitor.  I shall look into the matter and make sure that
it never happens again."

"How can you swear that I
shall never dream of her again, Willard?  You are a most excellent butler, but
I do not believe anyone is that good."

"Perhaps it was the dinner
which you ate so close to bedtime.  A bit too much salt or the wrong
combination of dishes.  I shall talk to Nan about adjusting the menu so that
only sweet dreams fill your head."

Clara finished her egg and
dabbed her lips with her napkin.  "A most excellent suggestion, Willard. 
Will you see to it for me?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"You should call me
Clara," she reminded him.

"Of course... Clara,
ma'am."

She rose from the table. 
"We shall continue to work on that.  Now, I believe I shall get outside
for my stroll before the day gets before me."

"That sounds like a most
excellent idea, ma'am."

He made to follow her to the
door, but she stopped him.  "I shall have Nan fetch my things.  You have
quite enough to do tidying up after my breakfast."

"Very good, ma'am." 

She found herself giving him
another smile.  It seemed rude not to return the goodwill that he bore towards
her.  She stepped into the foyer and called, "Nan!  Could you bring me my
hat and gloves?"

The housemaid did not respond,
so Clara decided to go upstairs and get them herself.

But as she walked down the
hallway, she was struck with a wash of cold.  It was as if someone had taken a
bucket of ice water and poured it over her head.  It reminded her of that cold
she felt the night before and instinctively, she looked for the girl in
purple.  Fear clenched her heart and filled her with foreboding.  She could
feel its beat pounding in her chest.  Her mind screamed at her to fly, to run
as far and as fast as she could without looking back, but all she could manage
was a single step.  And suddenly the cold was gone.  Her pulse returned to
normal.  The impending doom melted like sugar in water.  She turned back and
held out her hand into the space where she just stood and could feel the biting
cold of that one spot.  Clara walked swiftly to her room to fetch her things
and when she came back, edged her way around the area.

Willard was carrying out the
breakfast tray when she reached the ground floor once again.

"Willard?  Have you ever
found particularly cold places here in this house?"

He nodded knowingly. 
"Indeed, ma'am.  There are some places in this house that are quite
drafty.  It seems as if it is winter in one or two corners.  Nothing to worry
yourself about, ma'am."

"There was one spot in the
middle of the hallway," said Clara, pointing at where she had just been. 
She thought she saw a look of mild irritation cross Willard's face, not towards
her, but almost towards the location of the cold, the way one might look upon
finding a broken shingle on a roof or peeling paint upon a board.

"This house," he
muttered.  "I shall make sure she moves."

"I am sorry, Willard.  Did
you say 'she'?"

The faraway look in his eyes
disappeared and he shook his head, "Apologies.  I was thinking of your
midnight visitor.  I meant that I shall make sure we see to the draft."

He stepped down the hallway to
take the tray into the kitchen.  Clara watched him as he went, wondering if
there was perhaps more to her dream than met the eye, and that Willard meant
that 'she' more than he was letting on.

C
lara settled into her bed,
exhausted from so many nights of so little sleep. 

The day had passed quietly with
no great excitement.  She strolled the neighborhood in the morning, pausing to
look into shop windows and admire the small garden in front of her house.  She
returned indoors in the afternoon to explore her new home and rearranged the
few things that she brought from her old place.  She attempted to nap and
failed.  And then she sat and waited for the hours to pass.

Dinner was another lovely meal. 
Chicken glazed with a sweet orange sauce, dessert a small cake with fresh
cream.  She saw that Willard meant it quite literally when he said he would
ensure her dreams were sweet tonight.

And then the blessed hour of
bedtime arrived and once again, she surrendered to the embrace of her pillows. 
She swaddled herself in her blankets and nestled in.  Her eyes closed as the
clock struck ten.

"Clara..." whispered a
voice.

She was aware of the chimes
ringing out midnight.  Slowly, sleepily, she lifted her lids.  The bedroom was
bathed in that same blue light and the girl stood in the corner reaching out to
her.  The cold returned, causing Clara's teeth to chatter, and perhaps it was
more fear than cold that caused her to shake.  But this time, she did not
scream.  Instead, she asked, "What do you want from me?"

The girl waved at her to follow
as she passed through the door of the bedroom.  There was a part of Clara's
mind which wanted to pretend that this was a dream.  Or if her mind accepted
that it was real, that same part wanted to pretend it was a thief, an intruder
of some sort, perhaps a child who lived in the attic and came down to scare her
at midnight.  But watching the specter pass through the door without opening it
would allow her to deny it no longer.

She was seeing a ghost.

Upon the ghost's exit, the
room's temperature immediately dropped to normal.  Clara half hoped she could
just stay in bed and pretend that nothing had happened.  But then the ghost's
hand came through the door, and she curled one delicate, glowing finger and
Clara knew she must follow.

Clara wrapped herself in her
robe and slid her feet into her slippers.  She crept to the door and opened
it.  The hallway was dark, except for the ghost's unearthly glow at the far
end.  Clara steeled her courage and stepped forward.

How funny that she would long so
much for the afterlife, and here in this moment, she would do anything to
escape from it, she thought.  She wondered if perhaps her Thomas walked the
halls of their old home, and felt a pang of regret for ever leaving, thinking
after that moment in the vaudeville theatre and how it brought that vivid dream
of him last night.  She would do anything in her power to see his face again,
living or dead.

She wondered how this young girl
had passed, who it was that mourned her loss.  Certainly it could not have
happened from peaceful means.  Though she knew nothing about ghosts besides the
stories told in the dark as a child, the fact this one seemed so persistent in
her desire to show Clara something, she had to believe there was unfinished
business to attend to.

Clara rested her hand upon the
wall of her home and was suddenly filled with a sense of such peace.  She
thought back upon that original sense of kinship with this place and knew that
no harm would come to her within its walls. 

The ghost continued its journey
down the steps and turned into the study, which Clara still had not completely
unpacked.  The foyer plunged into darkness as the ghost's light disappeared and
Clara was forced to find her way in the pitch black.

She finally stepped into the
room and the ghost was pointing at a piece of art upon the wall.  It was a
hunting painting left by the previous owner.  It was hinged on one side and hid
the house's wall safe where Clara put her important documents.

The ghost continued to point at
it.

"Is it something with the
painting?" Clara asked.

The ghost shook her head and
pointed again.

"Something in the
safe?"

The ghost nodded, a look of
relief upon her face.

"I heard you say my name
and say that you needed my help.  Can you not tell me what it is that you
want?"

The ghost's lips moved, but they
made no sound.  Frustration crossed her face and she became more and more
agitated.

Clara held up her hands to calm
her.  "Please do not fret.  I shall open the safe and then you may show me
what you need."

But when Clara placed her hand
upon the picture, the clock in the hallway struck a quarter past the hour.  As
the last chime rang, the ghost disappeared.

Clara stood for a moment in
confusion and silence.  She did not know what to make of what just happened. 
She called out, "I do not know if you are still here, but I can no longer
see you.  I shall look inside the safe and see if I can hazard out your clues. 
I promise I shall help you rest."

Clara swung the frame from the
wall and slowly spun the dial of the safe.  It took a few attempts, for it was
still new and the numbers were not yet familiar.  The door finally opened and
Clara removed the papers.

They were merely legal documents
which would be a shame to lose if someone were to break into her house.  Her
marriage certificate.  Thomas's death certificate.  Her accounting records. 
The deed to the house.

Clara's hand paused upon this
document.  The home was purchased through a broker and she, herself, had never
spoken to the previous owner.  She looked at the name -—Lord Horace Oroberg. 
If strange things were going on, perhaps those who lived here before had
experienced it, too.

Clara looked up from the paper
and stared into the darkness.  She wondered about the girl who was found dead
in this home.  She wondered if she was the ghost that Clara saw.  Or if the
reason she died was because this ghost led her to her doom.

There was only one way to find
out.  Clara took the deed over to the desk, each step filling her with more
certainty.  Tomorrow, she would call on Lord Oroberg and she would inquire
whether he ever experienced an unwanted houseguest while he lived under this
roof.

S
he stood at the front door of
the home, her resolve to meet Horace Oroberg swiftly fading.  The manor and its
grounds were remarkably beautiful.  About an hour outside of the city, she had
taken the train and then the lovely weather made her decide to walk the country
roads to the house.  Upon arrival, she wished she had taken a cab so as to
appear as if she belonged.  A long gravel driveway led to the covered entry,
perfect for guests arriving by carriage to step out without worrying about the
elements.  The gardens were immaculately tended, each hedge perfectly square,
each blade of grass in its place.  She looked down upon her black dress, now
dusty from her travels and hoped she would not receive an immediate dismissal.

She reached to the handle of the
doorbell and bravely pulled it.  She waited for several minutes, knowing that
the house staff most likely had an enormous distance to cross in order to open
the door.

Finally, a tall, thin butler
peered through the glass.  The door swung open and he looked down upon her with
such refined distaste, she could barely stop herself from saying she had come
to the wrong home and apologize for troubling him.

But she did stand her ground. 
"Hello.  Many apologies for calling without an appointment.  I was
wondering if Lord Horace Oroberg was available."

The butler sniffed.  "And
who may I ask is calling?"

"Mrs. Clara O'Hare.  I
purchased a home in town from him and had a matter I needed to discuss."

"A matter?"

"Nothing unpleasant, I
promise.  Just a point of... interest... about the home.  I was hoping I might
have an opportunity to ask him about its history and something I have come
across."

The butler inclined his head
slightly.  "Please wait and I will see if the master is available."

The door closed and Clara was
left standing on the front step.  She tried not to show how uncomfortable and
out of place she felt.  She whispered to herself.  "Oh, Thomas.  If you
were here, you would never have let some butler leave you waiting on a
stoop."

Finally, the door opened again. 
The butler stepped aside and said, "Please come in. Follow me."

The interior of the home was
larger than any place Clara had been before.  The ceiling extended two stories
up.  The staircase swooped and the balcony was open, overlooking the foyer.  Large
potted ferns stood upon marble pedestals.  Paintings of ancestors gone by hung
from the darkly paneled walls.  The butler stopped in front of a double door
and opened it.

Clara stepped inside.  It was a
study, but probably four times the size of the one in her own home.  A desk
stood at the far end.  Several couches were set up around a fireplace.  A man
rose from his seat upon her entrance.  He was an older gentleman, heavyset with
the middle aged spread of a man who enjoyed liquor and fine dining.  His light brown,
graying hair was parted down the middle and swept into two curls on either side
of his forehead.  His lip sported a walrus-like mustache, which he smoothed
before removing his pince-nez from his nose.

The butler announced, "Mrs.
Clara O'Hare."

"Thank you, Gilbert. 
Please have some tea brought in straight away!  I’m sure this young lady is
quite in need of refreshment."  The man stepped forward with his hand outstretched
to her.  "A pleasure to meet you Mrs. O'Hare."

"Lord Oroberg?" she
asked, trying not to presume.

"At your service." 
His large hand wrapped around hers like she was but a child.  "But please,
call me Horace.  Jolly good to finally meet you!  Lovely to put a name to a
person!  How is the old place?  I hear from my lawyer that you are settled
in."

He motioned for her to sit.  She
perched upon a slipper chair before the fire as the door opened once again.  A
tray filled with tea and cookies appeared.  The maid poured for both Horace and
Clara before disappearing.

"So, tell me.  What can I
do for you today?" he asked.

Clara picked up the tea, trying
to keep the cup from clattering on the saucer.  Her hands were trembling and
she knew she would look like a fool before this man.

"Tell me, did you ever
experience anything strange in that house?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Strange?  How?"

She took a sip.  Despite knowing
that it was of the utmost importance to learn what the ghost was trying to tell
her if she ever hoped for an undisturbed night, she began to doubt her
reasoning in the bright light of day.  "I fear you will take me for a
fool."

"What could you ever say
that would make me think such a lovely woman as yourself is a fool?" he
laughed.

There was a glint in his eye
which gave Clara courage.  Something which seemed to indicate he might have
some personal knowledge of the matter which brought her here.

"I awoke to see a strange
figure.  A girl.  I at first dismissed it as a dream.  But the vision returned
again last night and whether my imagination or... something else... I was led
to believe you might be of aid."

Horace put down his cup and
leaned forward, one hand upon his knee and his face alight in excitement. 
"You saw her then?"

Clara nodded.  "I believe
so."

Horace slapped his knee. 
"I knew it!  I knew it.  Tell me, what did she look like?"

"A young girl.  Red hair. 
She wore a purple gown."

"That's her all
right!" he exclaimed.  He sat back and stared at the ceiling.  "So
many years, and you were the one to see her.  I knew that we were not alone in
that house."

Clara put down her cup.  "I
am sorry.  Could you please elaborate?"

But he was too excited to hear
her words.  Instead he got up and began pacing around.  "You must be very
in tuned to be able to actually see her.  To see her!  Oh, what will the others
say?  You must come with us this weekend!  That is what you must do!"

"I am sorry...?" she
questioned, not following his train of thought at all.

"Sorry?  There is nothing
to be sorry about!  You are a sensitive and the answer to our problems!  Say
you will come!"

"Come where?"

"I will send my soon to be daughter-in-law,
Violet Nero, to call on you tomorrow and invite you along, just so that you
know things are on the up-and-up."

"Please, Lord Oroberg..."

"Horace!  You must call me
Horace!"

"Horace, please tell me
what it is that is going on."

"Why, a séance, of
course!"

"A séance?"

"Of course!"

"Why would I want to attend
a séance?"

Horace sat down before her once
again.  "Because you saw a ghost.  An honest to goodness ghost.  A ghost
who led you here.  To me!  Don't you want to know why?  There are many of us
who have had such encounters, people who long for death and yet are not allowed
to cross the veil from this living world.  Our time may not yet have come, but
we feel sympathy with those who have gone before us.  They reach out to us
almost as much as we reach out to them.  I have brought together such friends
to explore our experiences.  I have hired a medium of excellent repute to come
to my home in the north country.  So many have said that they have felt and
seen things in this particular house of mine.  I must know!  I must know if it
is true!"

"But I saw the ghost in
my
house."

"So, we need to see if it
is just that house, or if you are able to see ghosts everywhere.  And if you
are able to see ghosts anywhere... well... you would have my deepest admiration
and regard."

"But I do not know if I want
to know if I can see ghosts everywhere," she protested.

"Of course you do!  We are
all searching for answers, and you, my dear, are the closest that any of us
have come.  The ghost led you here.  On this day of all days!  Not a week
before or a week later, but today!  Not twenty-four hours since I employed this
medium.  It must have been for a reason.  This is the only reason I can think
of!  You must come spend the weekend with us.  Say that you will!"

Clara sat for a moment in
silence.  True, she had only come for answers about the girl in lilac, but
Horace's excitement was contagious.  What if she did have some gift?  What if
this medium could somehow teach her?  What if she did not have to wait until
death to see her Thomas again?

It was this final thought which
caused her to say, "I will look forward to meeting your daughter-in-law,
Miss Nero, tomorrow, and if we feel a spirit of friendship between us, I shall
indeed look forward to a pleasant weekend in the north country meeting this
medium of yours.  I thank you kindly for your invitation and hospitality."

Horace raised his fist in the
air in triumph.  "Bully!  It shall be a splendid time for all!"