Somewhere the Bells Ring

Somewhere The Bells Ring by Beth Trissel The Wild Rose Press www.thewildrosepress.com Copyright © First published in ...

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Somewhere The Bells Ring by Beth Trissel

The Wild Rose Press www.thewildrosepress.com

Copyright © First published in 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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CONTENTS Praise for Beth Trissel Dedication The Bells, by Edgar Allan Poe Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight A word from the author... ****

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"Bailey." He spoke softly, so as not to startle her. She turned toward him. In her long, white nightgown, hair tumbled down around her, wearing that lost look, she bore an unnerving resemblance to the mysterious woman in Wilkie Collins' classic mystery, The Woman in White. Eric fervently hoped the similarity ended there. As he recalled from the novel, that unfortunate lady had been unhinged. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped inside. "We missed you at breakfast." She answered distractedly. "I wasn't hungry." He limped to where she stood, the hitch in his leg a little less pronounced today. Maybe he was getting stronger. "Why are you here, looking for ghosts?" "Or a door to the past." He tried to coax a smile to her trembling lips. "Did you check inside the wardrobe?" "Eric, I'm being serious." "That's what worries me." Leaning on his cane with one arm, he closed his other around her shoulders and drew her against him. Such a natural act, and she accepted his embrace without pulling back. She smelled of flowers from her perfume and wood smoke. "Mercy, child," he said in his best imitation of Ella, "it's as cold as a tomb in here." "It wasn't last night."

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Praise for Beth Trissel "Ms. Trissel's alluring style of writing invites the reader into a world of fantasy & makes it so believable it is spellbinding." ~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews [Back to Table of Contents]

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Somewhere the Bells Ring by Beth Trissel [Back to Table of Contents]

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Somewhere the Bells Ring COPYRIGHT (C) 2011 by Beth Trissel All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information: [email protected] Cover Art by Tamra Westberry The Wild Rose Press PO Box 708 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First Faery Rose Edition, 2011 **** Published in the United States of America [Back to Table of Contents]

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Dedication To my grandfather, Charles J. Churchman, who excelled at all he did, including outstanding service as a Marine Corps Captain in France during World War One. Though I never knew him, I grew up with much admiration for this man taken from his family long before my time. Like ripples on a pond, the sadness at his untimely death flowed out and encompassed future generations, and his memory lives on. **** 8


[Back to Table of Contents]

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The Bells, by Edgar Allan Poe "Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells." **** [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter One The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia December 1968 Every story has a beginning and an end, but Bailey Randolph wasn't certain when hers began. Perhaps here at Maple Hill where time seemed to stand still in the gracious Virginia home built during the reign of one of the King Georges. The old house whispered secrets like murmuring pines and the passing years made scant difference, apart from slow ruin. Despite the ravages of the Civil War and Great Depression, Maple Hill still had a rare grandeur and blended elegance with wilderness, rather like the contrast of darkness and light in a Rembrandt painting. The rambling, tree-filled yard merged with a field, up behind the house, that led to the wooded knob that gave Maple Hill its name. It was on her return walk from this vantage point, and the darkening woods behind her, when Bailey first spotted the figure in an upstairs window. Swaddled in Aunt Meg's scarf and coat with the collie frisking at her legs, Bailey stopped in the snow-encrusted grass to grab Captain's collar before he bounded after a red fox. The dog forgot his chase—unusual—and lifted his head at the brick house rising between snowy trees much as she imagined an English manor might appear, though on a smaller scale. Smoke trickling from the chimney scented the crisp air and light flickered in a second story window. The figure passed in front of the glass. 11


Odd. No one stayed in that room. With an excess of space, it wasn't needed and remained closed off. Maybe the housekeeper, Ella, her dusky skin creased like a multi-folded letter, or her doe-eyed daughter Rosa Mae readied it for company. Her gaze on the window, Bailey let go of Captain and straightened. Again, she glimpsed the shadowed form at the glass before he turned away. Yes, he. She couldn't say how, but she sensed this was a male presence. Perhaps Ella's brother Old John shifted furniture while she tidied up. Perhaps... Bailey wondered about ghosts after seeing her brother Brian's in her bedroom. Not while she was under the influence—before that—but definitely after he'd been killed in Vietnam. Members of the Randolph family did not see ghosts, or get themselves expelled from the highbrow girls' college all the Randolph women attended. Convalescence was what Bailey needed, according to her harried businessman father. Her stepmother had three younger children at home to worry over. And telling people her real mother wasn't dead but actually an undercover spy with the CIA no longer fooled anyone, least of all Bailey. She sucked in the frosty, smoke-tinged air and shook her head to clear it of fanciful imaginings. The figure must be related to guests coming. After all, Christmas was almost upon them with the accompanying bittersweet stab of nostalgia. A visitor might be nice, depending. Not that she could afford to be choosy, with only Aunt Meg, Captain, and 12


Ella for company. Old John and Rosa Mae said little; Ella spoke for them all. Bailey gazed beyond the house at the frozen countryside. The valley was in the grips of a fierce winter. Reindeer and polar bears would be at home here. An icy creek wound through the snow-covered meadow. Beyond this, the rays from the setting sun bathed the hills and distant ridges in a rosy gold wash. She watched as the brilliant colors faded to a pink blush along the horizon. Midnight blue arched across the sky and darkness swallowed the land, accentuating the melancholy enveloping her. There were no bright city lights, no hustle and bustle to mask her loneliness. Would she ever belong anywhere? An unmistakable glow drew her eye back to that second story window. She'd swear a fire burned in the hearth, and as far as she knew, it was boarded up. Surely she wasn't imagining that? Her father warned about the lingering effects of pot smoking. Bailey only tried it once in her dorm room and royally disgraced herself. Not that she clearly remembered the event; seems getting high does that to you. Worse— whatever she'd done involved a boy, also discovered in her room. Peter somebody. She wasn't embracing free love as she'd been accused, or joining the hippies. Long hair and holey jeans didn't qualify her for the ranks. She was just a hippie wannabe and didn't fit in with anyone. And here she was at Maple Hill seeing things. They'd probably lock her away. Maybe they already had. 13


The sound of a car engine revving up claimed her attention. Aunt Meg's black '56 Chrysler New Yorker headed down the lane. It was late in the day for a trip into town. All the shops were closed. Bailey better go back inside and see what was happening. Besides, she could no longer feel her toes. "House, Captain." She crunched across the white yard with the faithful collie and stomped her boots before tracking snow onto the enclosed back porch. Stamping again on the mat just outside the kitchen door, she called, "I'm back!" "Bout time!" Ella boomed from inside the kitchen. A string of sleigh bells on the door jingled as Bailey turned the handle and burst into the warmth, Captain at her heels. The spiciness of Ella's ginger cookies mingled with the meaty roast in the oven. Scratchy carols played softly from the radio propped on the windowsill. The basket of Christmas cards on the holly-sprigged table cloth, the red poinsettia, snowman salt and sugars, and sheets of cookies waiting to be stored in festive tins made a scene that would delight Norman Rockwell. A wooden ladle in hand, Ella turned from three pots simmering on the stove. A blue-checked apron and floral dress strained to cover an ample figure that reflected her culinary skills; the bulky gray sweater, an old friend she was never without. "Don't you go making a mess on my clean floor." She waved the ladle at the dog. "Out! Git on to the porch." He retreated behind Bailey, who pleaded, "But it's cold!" 14


"Got him a nice bed out there with plenty of blankets. Fresh water, food." Ella sent Captain scurrying to his box, the door jangling behind him. "Won't hurt him none with all that fur. Could sleep outside like a wolf." Still muttering, she grabbed the mop in the corner and stumped over in faded house shoes and support hose to attack the puddle spreading on the linoleum beyond the small braided rug where Bailey stood. Part Cherokee, part Negro, and part Bailey wasn't sure what, maybe past slave owner as some of those men had sired offspring, Ella ruled the kitchen and most of the house. She wouldn't allow a scrap of a kitten inside let alone a collie, and soft-spoken Aunt Meg deferred to her wishes. However, Ella insisted she knew her place and housed herself, Old John, and Rosa Mae out in the old kitchen behind the house, more of a cottage now, with a big hearth she put to use. With a decided "Humph," Ella restored the mop and tugged at the wool wrapping Bailey like a mummy. "Where you been, child? Don't you go fretting your Aunt now." "No. Sorry. Lost track of time." Easily done here. Clucking disapproval, Ella helped Bailey struggle out of the too-big coat then hung her wraps from the hooks on one pale yellow wall. "Can't stand about in them stocking feet. Catch your death." Ella snatched pink slippers from an assortment in the cupboard and nudged Bailey's numb toes into the fuzzy footwear. She then inspected her as she might a stray dog, only a dog wouldn't get this far. "That mane of yours could do with taming, like a half wild pony." She ran her critical gaze over Bailey's frayed sweater 15


and jeans. "Don't you got nothing better to wear? Look like a bum coming round the house." She sniffed. "Smell like one too." "It's incense—" "I told you not to be burning that stuff. Set the house on fire next thing. And don't you be thinking 'bout coloring on them walls." A reference to Bailey's bedroom murals at home. She'd had to begin somewhere with her art. No one accused Michelangelo of coloring on the ceiling. "You go and git a nice hot bath and find something pretty to put on." "Ella—" She held up a righteous hand with the demeanor of a pastor about to deliver a sermon. "You'll be glad enough to fix yourself up when you hear who's coming." Bailey considered the muted excitement in Ella's coffeecolored eyes. "Santa Claus?" Ella cocked her gray head at a jaunty angle. "Better." "Than Santa? Who?" Ella played her trump card. "Mr. Eric hisself." Bailey's heart lurched. "He's back on furlough?" "Nope. Called from the train station to say he's home for good. Never said nothing before. Wanted to surprise Miss Meg. He sure did, right enough. She's bubbling over. Rosa Mae drove her into town to fetch him. What do you think of that, Miss?" Quite a lot. Bailey's mind swirled with images of Eric Burke before he'd joined the Marines and shipped off to Vietnam. 16


Though on the serious side, he was gifted with flashes of wit and a smile that charged his average good looks with masculine glory. His perceptive brown eyes made Bailey wish she were smarter, funnier, everything he was. Not one to suffer fools lightly, he could sometimes be impatient with the shortcomings of others, but he'd always been kind to her. What little notice she'd received from him, that is. Four years older and a college athlete, Eric seemed more interested in tossing a football with his friends than conversing with an awkward girl. The only child of Aunt Meg's late husband by his first wife, he was Meg's stepson and as near to offspring as the middle-aged woman was likely to get. Eric regarded Maple Hill as his home, whenever he was here, which wasn't often. Apparently the old house had been in the Burke family practically forever. His homecoming was like the return of the young lord of the manor, and Bailey struggled to rein in her excitement. After all, he wasn't chomping at the bit to see her. "I'm glad he's back. He must be vastly relieved to leave the war behind." The furrows at Ella's brow deepened, and the lines at her mouth puckered. "If he can leave it. Miss Meg says his leg's pinned together in three places." Bailey grimaced. "That bad? I didn't realize. Can he walk?" "With a cane. He won't never be the same." "But he's alive. That's the main thing." More than her brother had been allowed.

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Ella gave her a long look. "Don't do no good to brood on Brian's passing. He's keeping company with the good Lord now." Bailey could wish God was a little less greedy for company. Ella slanted her eyes at Bailey as though she read her blasphemous thoughts then turned to the stove. "I got me a heap to do before they git back. If I hurry, maybe I can make up some biscuits. You three is eating in the dining room this evening. With candles. None of this gathering in the kitchen like field hands." "Do you want any help?" Ella stirred the green beans simmering with chunks of ham. "Girl, you're no hand in the kitchen. Your notion of fixing vittles is opening a tin. Go and git ready. It's gonna take you awhile. And don't come back looking like a gypsy," a reference to Bailey's beloved peasant blouse and tiered skirt. Having Eric to primp for gave Bailey considerably more incentive than usual, and her stepmother, Maeve, had insisted Bailey pack more clothes than she thought she needed for the holidays. Maybe she was at Maple Hill indefinitely as she suspected. "While the family considers what's best to be done under the circumstances," were her father's exact words. Grandpa urged grit. A World War One veteran, the silverhaired gentleman was big on grit and had driven Bailey up from Richmond two days ago and deposited her at Maple Hill. "You'll do the right thing," he said, before driving off down the rutted lane. Bailey wasn't so sure. 18


She padded toward the door in her borrowed slippers then stopped. The news about Eric had made her momentarily forget the figure upstairs. "Which room are you putting Eric in?" Ella reached into the cabinet for the shortening. "His own, of course. The white room." Old Southern homes had names, as did the rooms. Bailey slept in the yellow room across the far hall from the more austere white room outfitted with Eric's school pennants, trophies, and other masculine decor. Aunt Meg was on the other side of Bailey in the rose room, its walls papered with flowers. A second hall ran past Bailey and Aunt Meg's rooms and led to the stairs. "What about the room at the end of the front hall? The one on the right?" Bailey didn't know its name. Ella shook her head. "No one uses that one." "That's what I thought, but..." Ella shot her a glance over her shoulder. "What?" "Thought I saw a light on in there a little while ago." She frowned. "Can't. No one's there." Which left Bailey to arrive at the only logical conclusions, either Maple Hill was haunted or she was losing her mind. She wondered if Eric would find her particular brand of insanity charming or downright weird, or whether he'd even notice her at all. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two Sometimes in life, the people who come before you and the events they undergo determine your fate. It seemed to Eric Burke that his course had been predetermined, his path already laid out for him, but he couldn't see clearly where it led. If he took a wrong turn, he might fall into the void. If he chose rightly, all might still end well. At least, this was the sensation washing over him as he limped into the dining room at Maple Hill. Alight with candles, festooned with greenery, the room was a Yuletide dream, and waiting to greet him was Arwen, the Elven princess from The Lord of the Rings. Not that she had elfish ears, they were dainty and set close to her head, but the oval shape of her face framed by tendrils of honeycolored hair, starry eyes dappled green and gold like the forests of Middle Earth, and her petite size gave her an appealing sprite-like appearance. His stepmother joined the girl. Blue eyes crinkling in a smile, Meg closed an affectionate arm around her slender shoulders. "You remember Bailey, don't you, Eric?" He bit back his astonishment. "Of course. Good to see you again, Bailey." She smiled at him. Not a token nicety, but a genuine curve of her pretty, unpainted mouth, reflected in the glowing warmth of her eyes. "Welcome home, Eric." A strange fluttering stirred in his middle and palpitations charged his heart. "Thanks. Good to be back." 20


What Eric expected to find on his return to Maple Hill he couldn't have said. The old home was much as he'd left it, he supposed, but certainly not Bailey Randolph looking like she'd stepped out of a fairy tale. She might have been dressed for a Madrigal dinner in that ankle-length, green velvet dress with long, puffed sleeves. He almost expected cries of "Wassail! Wassail!" and the arrival of a roast suckling pig with an apple in its mouth borne into the room by medieval serfs. Leaning on his cane with one hand, he swept his other at her. "Wow, just look at you. All grown up." She blushed with apparent pleasure, and, if possible, her eyes glowed even more. "Surprised to see me?" He smiled through his shock. "Sure am." "Bailey's staying with us for awhile." Meg's explanation struck Eric as vague, but he was too preoccupied with Bailey to give it much thought. How he'd ever considered her mousy, he couldn't imagine. From his hazy recollection of Bailey, she'd been half-hidden in that wealth of hair. Now, pulled back from her forehead in a gold clasp covered with seed pearls, her delicate features were revealed. The sweatpants and baggy T-shirt she'd worn before had done nothing to emphasize her curves, if she'd had any then. In this dress, he noted the angular lines of her former skinny frame had softened and filled out. The wide waistband beneath the gathered bodice accentuated her modestly clad, but shapely figure. He'd heard fashions had run wild in his absence, ranging from miniskirts to long maxis and most everything in between. Bailey's attire was definitely unusual—stunning— 21


and suited her. Unprepared for the near electrical jolt to his heart, he had to remember to close his dropped jaw. Maybe it was partly the effects of jet lag and he wasn't thinking clearly, or maybe he'd been away too long and didn't know how to act around American girls anymore, but in that moment Eric thought he'd never seen a more beautiful young woman. And that sense of destiny assailed him again. Meg nodded her graying, sandy bob as though all were right with the world while Eric's was spinning off into space. "So glad you two are getting reacquainted. Wonderful to have you home, Eric. The house just wasn't the same without you." Her Southern accent made even single syllables sound double. Keeping one arm around Bailey, Meg slipped her other around his waist. Her head met somewhere under his arm as she drew him into a surprisingly strong embrace. There the three of them stood in an impromptu hug. Eric had no idea what to say. Apparently neither did Bailey. Awkward was the word that came to mind. He caught a whiff of Meg's classic perfume mingled with the hint of starshine emanating from Bailey. Whatever the fragrance was, she smelled good. He shifted uncomfortably in Meg's hold, and she loosened her grip. "Mustn't keep you standing about. I'm sure you're worn out after all your travel." Maybe that explained the weird vibrations coursing through him at the sight of Bailey. He was asleep on his feet. "It's just the three of us for dinner this evening," Meg continued. "Ella says everything's ready. Please be seated." 22


She waved him and Bailey toward the table, the large diamond on her aged hand glittering—the ring from his father that had been in the family for generations. His mother wore it before her death, and Eric secretly thought it should have been buried with her. Not that he faulted the ever gracious Meg. Ella stumped in with a plate of biscuits hot from the oven and a wide smile on her broad face. "High time Mr. Eric was back in his proper place at the table. Miss Meg wouldn't let no one else set there while you was gone." The sheen of tears in his stepmother's eyes betrayed the depth of her emotions, her understated demeanor such a contrast to Ella's outspokenness. Meg dabbed at the watery glimmer with an embroidered handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of her red cardigan. "We're so grateful you've safely returned to us." Guilt pricked Eric. He hadn't exactly hurried back, but been forced to return after his unfortunate injury took him out of commission. He'd planned a career in the Marines that would keep him far away from Maple Hill. For some unfathomable reason beyond the death of his parents, as if that weren't sufficient cause for pain, he associated the gracious home with loss. Like an ache from an old injury he couldn't quite place, it gnawed at him all the same—rather like his damnable leg. Well, he was back now, at least until he chose what course to pursue next. "Thanks, Meg." His voice was gruff. He never called her mom. 23


Voice tremulous, she said, "Your father would be so proud of you." Eric gave her a rueful smile. "My father managed to make it through World War Two relatively unscathed." Survived DDay with both legs intact. Amazing, really. And then he'd dropped dead fourteen years later of a heart attack, the unseen killer. The lines at Meg's brow deepened in sympathy. "You're here now. That's the important thing." Not to Eric. Leaning on his cane, dressed in his green service uniform, chest covered with medals, he truly must look the wounded hero back from the war—a war with all the hardship and none of the glory his father or great Uncle Edward had returned to after serving in both World Wars. Americans were as cold toward Eric's sacrifices in Vietnam as the chill wind blasting him when he stepped off the plane. Tonight he'd pack his uniform away in the trunk alongside his uncle and father's, and tomorrow he'd dress as a civilian—the tomorrow he'd thought would never come. He returned his focus to Bailey. Pain shadowed her eyes. He shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have reminded her of her brother. Not that she could forget. Eric's presence must be reminder enough of the war that seemed so far removed from Maple Hill, and yet its effects were keenly felt. Ella plunked the biscuits down on the table beside the cut glass butter dish. "Be thankful you kin still walk." Barely. But Eric made no protest. Ill at ease from the unaccustomed attention and emotion stirring inside, he 24


limped to the head of the elegant table and lowered his frame into the carved wooden chair. Meg settled in the seat at the other end of the table, looking snug in her tweed slacks. The old house was never warm unless you positioned yourself directly before a stove or hearth. He sniffed smoke from the living room hearth, but the fire in the dining room wasn't lit. Keeping multiple fires going was a lot of work. Efforts had gone elsewhere. He admired the spotless white linen set with the holly-sprigged china and crimson goblets from Christmases past. Fresh pine ringed the silver candelabra at the center of the table. Ella's strawberry jam, relish, and pickles were heaped in cut crystal. He gestured at the spread. "It looks splendid, ladies." Meg inclined her head. "Ella outdid herself." Ella boomed, "We wanted everything nice for you." She beamed while Meg gestured an uncertain Bailey into the chair at Eric's right. "That will be your place, Bailey dear." The caramel streaks in Bailey's hair and the pearls on her clasp were luminous in the candlelight. Her velvet dress shone with the rich green of the woodlands. She perched on the edge of her seat as though she might flit away at any second. Fitting for an elfin sprite, he supposed, but he hoped she'd stay. Maybe if he could think of anything reassuring to say— Meg signaled him from her end of the table. "Eric, would you say Grace?" That wasn't what he'd had in mind, but he blessed the food and expressed his gratitude, scarcely aware of what he said while his mind turned over the baffling conundrum of Bailey. 25


Discovering her at Maple Hill like this was as unexpected as coming across roses abloom in the snow. He thought all color had gone from his world, then here she was—an explosion of color, awakening his dulled senses. What did it mean? What could it mean? Ella ran her unabashed scrutiny over the girl. "Who you supposed to be, Miss, the Christmas queen?" A typical Ella remark. Bailey flushed. "You said to dress for dinner." Hands on her stout hips, Ella tossed back, "Not one in a castle. Ain't you got nothing normal to wear?" Eric wished the older woman weren't so outspoken. Bailey looked as though she'd rather be most anywhere else and angled her eyes toward the double doors that led to the living room and, if one kept going, to the far hall and up the stairs. Eric came to her rescue before she bolted to her bedroom. "I think she looks lovely." Meg smiled her approval. "And so festive. Like a pretty Christmas present." Ella shrugged beneath the thick sweater that must've taken the wool of many a sheep to knit. "That fancy dress makes a nice change from them ratty jeans, I spose." Bailey shot Eric a grateful glance. The light in her eyes warmed his soul and made him feel like a knight coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress. "Ya'll eat up. I cooked plenty." Ella stumped back to the kitchen, and her nimble and thankfully quiet daughter, Rosa Mae, appeared with a platter of steaming roast beef. She'd already greeted Eric at the train station and driven him home. 26


Without further comment, she calmly went about serving the meal. Despite his appreciation of Ella's home cooking, he was torn between enjoying the food and not being able to keep his eyes off of Bailey. Discreetly, that is. If anyone had told him that minutes after his return to Maple Hill he'd be falling under the charms of Bailey Randolph, he'd have laughed it off as a hearty joke. He could use a good joke about now. That nameless ache inside him welled up when he gazed at her. What had gotten into him? It wasn't as if he could have a relationship with Bailey. The words Bailey and relationship didn't belong in the same thought. What a couple they'd make, the hardcore soldier and the lady on her way to a Renaissance Fair. One of them would have to change. From what little he knew of Bailey, he doubted she'd bend without considerable persuasion. Perhaps even therapy. She was odd, possibly mentally unstable. The poor girl lost her brother in February during that heinous Tet Offensive. No doubt Brian's death had worsened her condition, and no one had offered Eric an explanation as to why she appeared to now be living at Maple Hill. What had she done to offend her family, led a peace march or something equally distasteful? He heard she'd fallen in with hippies, an antisocial, antiestablishment, anti-American bunch. At this moment, though, she didn't look anti-anything. She looked simply irresistible. She bit into her biscuit and lifted her eyes to his with a contemplative gleam as she chewed. She shifted her gaze from him to the framed photograph of the young marine on 27


the wall. After a swallow of water, she said, "You look like him in your uniform. Even have the same short haircut, although he's wearing a cap." "You think?" She returned her gaze to the picture. "Yes." "Thank you, I guess." "Yes." There was an insistent note in her reply. "He's quite handsome. Who is he?" "My great uncle, Edward Burke." Ella boomed from the kitchen. "You're the spitting image of Mister Edward. I remember him well, was a girl in this house in them days." Bailey tilted her head at the kitchen. "What happened to him?" Ella's bulk appeared in the doorway, a tea towel in hand. "The house would be his if he'd lived, but he died young." "In the war?" "Not right off. They sent him back home to mend from an injury he got at the front. Only he never mended. Passed away soon after his wife. Pretty little thing. Broke his heart her going while he was gone. It never seemed right to me them dying that way, but that's the Lord's affair." A dull pain pierced Eric's middle. Bailey leaned forward in her seat. "What happened to her?" Ella paused and considered. Her scrutiny passed between Eric and the aged photograph and back to the persistent girl. "It's a sad tale and not one for this happy homecoming, Miss Bailey. Ask me another time." 28


It occurred to Eric that no one had ever told him the whole story of Edward Burke and his young wife before, and that maybe they should. He'd always felt a bond with this relative he'd never known. But as Ella said, this was not the time. Meg nodded. "Quite right." Bailey sat up straighter in her chair. "Wait, which was Edward's room, Ella?" Her mouth crimped at the edges and she answered with evident reluctance. "I reckon you know which one." A strange expression came over Bailey's face. Ella shook her head at her. "No more of that talk now, you hear." She turned back to the kitchen, her stiff back registering disapproval. Eric eyed Bailey quizzically. She'd gone white. "What's all this about?" Bailey darted her gaze at the kitchen and back at him. She pressed her lips together. "Come on. You can tell me." She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and blurted, "I think there's a ghost upstairs." Ella shot back, "Ain't no such thing!" "Now Bailey," Meg chided gently. Eric wasn't certain what to make of her sudden disclosure, but played along. "Whose room is he in, yours or mine?" "Oh, he has his own room. And how did you know it's a he?" "I just assumed. What makes you think it's a he?" "A feeling I had." 29


Eric studied her closely. She didn't appear over the top crazy, but it was difficult to access her mental state on such short acquaintance. "Are you frightened to stay here, Bailey?" "Perhaps a little." Her voice was small. He reached across the table and took her hand, cool to the touch, and gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Don't be. I'm sure the ghost is just your imagination." She didn't appear entirely convinced, but held endearingly to his hand. Her fingers felt right in his, as if they belonged there, a delightful and disconcerting sensation in one. "You'll see. Everything will be fine." "Of course it will," Meg soothed. "You're just overtired and having trouble with your nerves." This might cover a myriad of conditions requiring anything from a restorative hot toddy and a nap to hospitalization. Eric must seek further for what troubled Bailey. If he were to go along with her premise, though, the idea of a male ghost seemed most appropriate, and he had a pretty good idea which room she'd assigned him. At that moment, his life swung onto a whole new track. Downhearted from his injury and having to leave his beloved Corps with only the offer of a dry desk job to consider or sitting for the bar and embarking on a career in the law, he'd returned home wanting only to rejoin his comrades in arms. But now, an unforeseen mission lay before him, to stay and explore the tantalizing mystery of Bailey Randolph and her ghost. [Back to Table of Contents] 30


Chapter Three Like a haunting melody, the man's low voice threaded through Bailey's troubled dreams. He seemed to be calling her...but to where? Uncertain if she were awake or still asleep and dreaming she was conscious, she sat up in bed in the yellow room. The butter colored walls and gold-flowered curtains, dimly seen from the low light outside her partly open door, gave the room its name. Aunt Meg must've left the lamp on in the hall. A halo shone from the top of the walnut stand at the head of the passage. Reason dictated Bailey should remain in her snug bed and go back to sleep, assuming she was awake. But reason didn't enter into the summons compelling her from her nest of covers to stand on the icy floor. She stuck her feet into the pink slippers Ella lent her, admittedly warmer than her own pair. The long-sleeved, white nightgown Ella also supplied and had insisted Bailey wear fell to the floor and covered her fuzzy footwear. Sporting lace at the cuffs and a high, empire bodice tied with ribbons, the old-fashioned nightgown looked as if it originated in the nineteenth century. Granted, some styles were timeless and this was pretty in its way, but the soft flannel was redolent of the cedar chest where it must've been stored, with a pungent hint of mothballs. Ella would hear no argument. "Like ice in that bedroom. You'll be glad of this nightie, right enough, when yer froze to the bone, so don't be turning up your nose at it, Miss Bailey." 31


Hugging the warm cloth to her, Bailey padded across her room and crept down the three steps to the hall. Maple Hill had been built in stages and steps adjusted for the uneven levels, but some of them creaked. She slipped past Aunt Meg's cracked door. No point in worrying Meg with her nocturnal ramble, bound to be deemed peculiar at best. The cold wind rattled the windows in the hall and flung sleety snow at the glass panes. She shivered in the draft leaking through the casings and other crevices in the old house. It was no wonder black snakes sometimes found their way inside in the summer. The pale light trailing down the hall illuminated the closed door to her right. She stopped outside the wooden barrier, darkened and scored with age, and pressed her ear to its hard surface. Nothing unusual reached her above the rattle of the wind. Likely the smoke she detected had floated upstairs from the living room hearth. If a bum had stolen into the house and taken up residence in here—a wildly unlikely premise—she shouldn't seek him out alone. Worse—if a ghost lurked within, she didn't want to come upon this unearthly specter by herself. Or at all. She shivered from more than the frigid air, but didn't turn back. It might well be that the figure and light she'd seen earlier were simply the fabrications of her overactive mind. Supposedly no one had stayed in here for decades, presumably because it wasn't needed. Ella gave the room an occasional dusting then shut the door. Any spillover of company slept elsewhere, including the two spare bedrooms downstairs. 32


Still, Bailey wondered. She had to peek inside this room. Go, if you're going, she urged herself, before she lost her nerve. Anticipating furniture covered in dimly seen sheets, an icy chill like the inside of a mausoleum, and no signs of life except possibly a vaporous figure, she gave the brass knob a twist and opened the door. She stood stock-still. The room crackled to life like the fire burning in the hearth across the stretch of carpet right in front of her. If she'd come here during the day would all be as she'd expected? Was she dreaming now, because seated before the fire in one of two leather armchairs was a young man, and not just any man. He resembled Edward Burke from the photograph in the dining room. Brown hair with a tendency to wave had grown back from the short military cut she'd seen beneath the cap he wore in the picture. Instead of the Marine uniform from World War One, he was dressed in a rust-brown velveteen robe with a shawl collar worked in a multicolored print, the sort of robe gentlemen wore in pictures she'd seen of early Twentieth Century fashion. The plush cloth covered him nearly to his ankles. His stocking feet were shod in slippers of the same hue and propped on a padded footstool. He glanced up from the book he held in long, slender fingers. His chestnut brows rose in a quizzical arch then drew together above narrowing brown eyes. "Did no one ever instruct you to knock before entering a gentleman's bedchamber?" 33


Never for an instant had it occurred to Bailey she might be intruding. "Sorry—" He waved aside her stammered apology with a pale hand then motioned to her. "Come in, now you're here, and shut the door. Fierce draft tonight. Forgive me for not standing." He patted his right thigh. "The leg's flared up." She realized he was apologizing for not getting to his feet in deference to a lady. The husky edge to his voice and languor about his demeanor gave evidence of an individual who wasn't at all well. His thin face, though not gaunt, bore signs of suffering and his eyes were shadowed with dark smudges. Most striking was the aura of sadness cloaking him. Hardly aware of what she did, Bailey stepped further inside the room and closed the door behind her. But stayed still. He ran his eyes the length of her and returned his scrutiny to her face. "The hour is late. Could you not sleep or are you wandering in your dreams?" "Yes—no. I mean, it is, late, that is. And I awoke in the night. I don't know if I'm dreaming. Forgive the disturbance." The slight smile crossing his face enhanced the attractiveness he still possessed despite his decline, and he had a quiet dignity that commanded respect. She wondered if she ought to address him as sir, but he seemed quite young, only four or five years older than she. Wait—he was a great deal older, if he hailed from World War One, wasn't he? He coughed into the white handkerchief he held to his mouth then paused for breath. "As far as I can determine, you appear quite awake. Please don't let the annoyance of an 34


invalid distress you. I'm often out of sorts these days. You must be staying with the family for Christmas." She gave a nod. "I'm Edward Burke, but then you already know that, don't you?" She swallowed hard. "Yes." Faint amusement curved his mouth. "Good heavens, as bad as that. What have they told you about me?" She could hardly say Ella mentioned he'd died. "Little, really." He considered her. "So you came to see for yourself?" "Yes—no. I wasn't sure..." "Of what you might find?" She shrugged, helpless to answer. "A trifle odd, perhaps, but I'm glad of company this night." He laid his book on the oval, walnut stand beside him. "Please, come and sit with me. I assure you I'm not considered infectious." She hadn't thought he might be, or that she could catch anything from someone in a dream. Was that a possibility, if she'd traveled back in time— He broke into her thoughts. "Must be fatigue, but I fear I don't recall your name, Miss?" "Randolph. Bailey Randolph." He nodded as though familiar with her name. "Any relation to Charles Randolph?" She startled. "Why, yes." "Good Marine. I fought with him at The Battle of Belleau Wood. As far as I know he's still in France." 35


Bailey assumed he must've been at that time and nodded. Her most unlikely host continued. "At least the fighting's over now. I managed to get myself injured shortly before Armistice Day." She vaguely recalled Grandpa speak glowingly of that day, now Veteran's Day, when the Armistice was signed on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. "Rotten luck getting hit so near the end of the war." "If luck comes into it. Are you Charles's younger sister?" She shook her head. "Cousin, I suppose." Bailey hated to lie, but couldn't tell Edward she was Charles Randolph's granddaughter. In her nightgown she must seem to fit into the time Edward occupied, or thought he did. If he were a ghost, he was a very real one, and if this were all a dream, it still seemed best to go along with his supposition. "Forgive me, I'm distracting you." He muffled a cough with the handkerchief and waved at the armchair next to his. "Do have a seat." She started toward him, stumbling over her long hem. "Easy as you go. Don't need two of us down. I feel such a sloth sitting here. And to think not so long ago I was slogging through battlefields—" A jarring cough intruded. "You really ought to be resting in bed," she blurted out, and then considered she shouldn't instruct someone of his authority. "I appreciate your concern, Miss Randolph. But I prefer this posture before the fire." 36


"Of course. Much pleasanter." She walked to where he waited and lowered herself into the seat he'd indicated beside him. The leather cushion felt quite real beneath her. He smiled wanly. "Isn't that better?" "Yes. Thank you." He swept his hand at the room. "What do you think of my confines?" She cast her gaze over the elegant furnishings. A mahogany bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes lined the left wall; the glint of gold lettering in some of the titles caught the light. A gentleman's desk and chair were positioned along the light brown wall to her right, and toward the corner stood a sizeable wardrobe. Family portraits framed in gold spread over the available space between the furnishings. One photograph above the desk caught her attention, of Edward and a sweet-faced young woman posed in their wedding clothes. He wore a dark suit and she was all in white with a veil and ivory roses on her head. They weren't smiling, not the custom of that day to smile in pictures, but the pair seemed much in love. This must be the cherished wife he'd tragically lost, but there was no evidence that the couple had shared this very masculine room. Apart from the coverlet embroidered with flowers on the stately four-poster bed, a woman's touch was lacking. The bed was situated near the bookcase and several volumes were stacked on the bedside table. An Aladdin lamp on the stand shone over glass bottles of various sizes and colors with curious labels promising relief from various ills, and a small blue enamel and silver gilt pillbox. Quite ornate. 37


Among the assortment, she recognized the cobalt blue bottle of vapor rub. Musty books and medicinal smells mingled with kerosene from the lamp and wood smoke. Such heady odors for a dream. Edward smelled of soap tinged with camphor, as though he'd recently been sponged then slathered in ointment. And she sniffed the minty essence of peppermint. The glass container on the chest of drawers held beautifully made hard candies such as those she'd seen in old fashioned candy shops. Perhaps the peppermints soothed his cough. On his bedside stand, she also noted a half empty glass of water, an untouched cup of tea in a flowered china cup, and several men's handkerchiefs. She made out the initials E.R.B. on one. That gave her a start. These were Eric's initials. Eric Rowland Burke. Did the two men have the same middle name? Although Eric's face was thinner now than she remembered and lined from the injury he'd suffered in Vietnam, his color was better than Edward's and his eyes clearer. Edward's held the glaze of fever. Despite his limp and his cane, Eric seemed more robust. The man beside her wasn't the least bit vigorous. He seemed to await her reply. "It's a fine room," she said, "but you must weary of being in here day in and day out." "Unspeakably. Would you believe I was once adept at football and tennis, and won horse races?" She could, but his question didn't seem to require an answer. 38


He continued, almost as if speaking to himself, "but what one used to do has little bearing on the present, except as a sad reminder." His eyes settled on her. Have they told you of my illness?" "Not in detail. Is it very bad?" She knew full well it had to be. "I had shrapnel taken from my leg and chest in a French hospital. Seems a fragment nicked my lung and I was slow to heal. So they sent me home. The doctor comes with his pills and potions, and my chest is pink from plasters. Ella doses me with cups of sage and honey tea, and horehound, but nothing does me much good." With a sense of disbelief, Bailey said, "I'm sorry." He shrugged as though the end was inevitable and he couldn't be bothered. "Have you been to Maple Hill before?" "Upon occasion for short visits. " "How long are you staying this time?" She lowered her gaze from his intent focus. "I'm not certain. I arrived two days ago. I'm not really sure where I belong," she confided, surprised that she had. A thoughtful pause during which she sensed him plumb her depths, then he replied, "I see. Was that you I spied out the window bundled to the gills?" She looked up in surprise. "Yes, but how—" "I walk about a little. Spent my reserve for the day." A hint of wistfulness tinged his dark eyes. "You remind me a little of someone." He reminded her of Eric, but she couldn't say. Rather, she asked, "Who?" 39


His voice husky, he said, "Claire." "My middle name is Clarice." She'd always despised it. "But I don't suppose there's any relation. Who is she?" "My wife." Bailey's heart sank. She hadn't heard her name before. "She died, didn't she?" His eyes were haunted. "While I was away fighting in this infernal war. I never got to say goodbye." She bent toward him. "Is that why you're here?" He studied her as though she'd missed the obvious. "Where else would I be?" "Of course. Never mind. Tell me what happened to Claire?" "Ruptured appendix, I'm told. Infection set in and took her very fast." Bailey didn't know what to say, or how to tell him all of this had happened quite a long time ago when he was in the grip of such raw emotion. "How dreadful." He paused again to cough into his handkerchief with a particularly violent spasm. Seemingly spent, he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. Bailey wondered if he'd fallen asleep, and then he said, "If I'd been here, I might have gotten her to the doctor in time. They can operate on appendix." "If she was stricken all of a sudden and it ruptured quickly, there's little anyone could have done. My uncle died the same way." He sighed. "We'll never know. I hoped Claire might have left me something before she died, a note maybe. Anything. In her last letter she mentioned a gift. I thought Ella might discover where Claire hid it, but she hasn't." 40


"Maybe I could find her present for you." He opened glazed eyes. "This is a big house. Would you even begin to know where to look?" "No, but I have little else to occupy myself with while I'm staying at Maple Hill." The faint stirring of hope in his expression reached into her heart. "Very well. I'd be grateful for your help. And think, perhaps, you are the ideal choice for this quest." Another bout of coughing seized him. He was taking a turn for the worse. "You really ought to be in bed, or the hospital." "I'd succumb faster there. The hospital's overflowing with those wretches stricken by influenza." He eyed her in warning. "Don't even go into town. We have provision enough at Maple Hill. Folks are dropping on the street." He must be referring to the terrible pandemic of 19181919, Spanish influenza they'd called it. Millions died the world over, some within mere hours of taking ill. "See those?" He waved his hand at the cut glass decanter and shot glasses on the top of the dresser. "Pour me a drop of whiskey, cuts the cough better than anything. And pour one for yourself. Join me in a nightcap." She rose and walked to the dresser. Lifting the cut glass stopper, she poured the amber fluid into two tumblers and returned to him. "Here you go." "Thanks." Edward sipped his drink, head back in his chair, eyes closed. He sighed contentedly. "Excellent brew. 1902 Scotch whiskey." 41


She sipped hers, the first time she'd tasted hard spirits, and coughed. He looked at her and smiled. "I suppose it takes some getting used to, Miss Randolph." "Please, call me Bailey." He nodded slowly. "You must call me Edward." "Agreed." Lifting his glass in a salute, he said, "Here's to our friendship." She clinked her tumbler to his. "To our friendship." "And to this rum old world," he added, his eyes drifting shut. "God keep my buddies and see them safely home." Bailey murmured, "God keep them." He was fading fast and she had so many questions left to ask him. "Edward, did you and Claire share this bedroom?" He shook his head. "No, the rose room. This was my study. I had the bed moved in here." "You didn't want to sleep in the other room without her?" "The emptiness was unendurable." The pain in his voice cut Bailey to her soul. In little more than a whisper, he asked, "You will come back and see me again?" "If there's any way possible, I will." "You mean if I'm still here? I don't suppose I'll live to hear the bells ring." "Where, when?" "In the meadow on Christmas Eve, to signal the coming of Good Saint Nick. Young John rings them." Young John must be Old John now. 42


"Bells ring the world over on Christmas. Perhaps I'll hear them on the other side..." Bailey set her glass on the stand and laid her hand across Edward's. He clutched the handkerchief in his fist, his other hand curled around his glass. His skin was cold to her touch. "Hold on, Edward. I'll find Claire's gift for you." He fluttered his eyes and looked hard at her, as though focusing his vision. "Bailey, why are you wearing her nightgown?" She caught her breath. "Ella lent it to me. I'd no idea." "Keep it. It suits you. More of Claire's clothes are stored in a trunk, in the attic. Want you to have them..." His voice drifted away, but Bailey had heard all she needed. Tomorrow she'd search that attic. [Back to Table of Contents]

43


Chapter Four As Eric suspected, he discovered Bailey in the room the family never used. Unaware of him poised in the doorway, she stood on the carpet in the center of the floor staring at the armchairs and closed up hearth. Only the gray light coming through the windows shed any illumination on this dismal December morning. Everything in the room was as he remembered from the last time he'd stepped foot in here. The bed covered with a large sheet, the stand beside it, the bookcase, chest of drawers and dresser down to the gentleman's brush and comb on the top were the same as they'd been for decades, but with a musty scent from being closed up. Yet, it wasn't the wintry chill sending a tremor down his spine. "Bailey." He spoke softly, so as not to startle her. She turned toward him. In her long, white nightgown, hair tumbled down around her, wearing that lost look, she bore an unnerving resemblance to the mysterious woman in Wilkie Collin's classic mystery, The Woman in White. Eric fervently hoped the similarity ended there. As he recalled from the novel, that unfortunate lady had been unhinged. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped inside. "We missed you at breakfast." She answered distractedly. "I wasn't hungry." He limped to where she stood, the hitch in his leg a little less pronounced today. Maybe he was getting stronger. "Why are you here, looking for ghosts?" 44


"Or a door to the past." He tried to coax a smile to her trembling lips. "Did you check inside the wardrobe?" "Eric, I'm being serious." "That's what worries me." Leaning on his cane with one arm, he closed his other around her shoulders and drew her against him. Such a natural act, and she accepted his embrace without pulling back. She smelled of flowers from her perfume and wood smoke. "Mercy child," he said in his best imitation of Ella, "it's as cold as a tomb in here." "It wasn't last night." "You were here then too?" "Not for long. At least, I don't think so." "I don't see how you could stand it here for long, unless you bivouacked in a tent with a sleeping bag. The furnace is barely able to keep the pipes from freezing in the house, let alone heat this unused space." He limped to one of the armchairs and took Ella's heavy, crocheted throw from across the high back. Returning to Bailey, he closed it around her shoulders. "As you seem determined to stay awhile." "Thanks." He was comfortable enough in his navy pullover and gray wool slacks, although it was strange not to be in uniform and he knew he looked rather ivy league. He circled his arm back around Bailey again. A thrill ran through him when she nestled into his embrace, and he hoped it was more than the need for warmth that drew her to him. His overpowering attraction to her made little sense. He only knew he wanted 45


to help her and be with her, as he'd never wanted to be with any girl before. "Do you ever feel there's something about this house, a strong pull to the past?" She asked in a whispery voice. Her query touched a place deep inside Eric that he preferred to keep as tightly closed as this room had been before her coming. "Sometimes. But that's inevitable, given the age of this place." "It's more than that. There's sadness, its strongest in here." He answered slowly. "Some tragedies have a way of flowing out, like ripples on a pond, and affecting future generations. We're bound to think of Edward and Claire." He refrained from adding, but it's not worth going around the bend over, and asked, "But why do you think the room's haunted?" "You'll think I'm crazy if I tell you." He kept his tone light. "More than I already do?" She lifted her troubled gaze to his and replied like one with scant hope of being believed. "The hearth was warm and burning in here last night." "That must have been a very vivid dream." "But I could taste, smell, and feel things like they were real." "Some dreams seem so." "Not like this. That fire was lit." He eyed the white, painted insert made of wood and neatly fitted into the hearth to close off the draft. "We could pull that 46


seal out fairly easily and make a fire, but you can see for yourself no one has." "Unless they did so and reinserted the seal." "Seems highly unlikely." "I know. I thought maybe a bum snuck in here at first." He considered her closely. "At first?" "Until I discovered your Uncle Edward. We sat in those chairs and spoke together." Eric stared at her. She didn't seem like a raving lunatic. Her eyes were anxious but conveyed the awareness of a sound mind firmly grounded in reality. Not the wild gaze of one wandering in delusion. But then, he wasn't certain what an insane woman looked like, more deranged he assumed. She sighed. "I know it doesn't make any sense." "That's the understatement of the century." A mulish look came into her eyes. "I'm just telling you what happened." "You spoke with a dead man? The fire in the closed hearth seems perfectly plausible by comparison." Her lips puckered and her face drew together in a plea. "Both are true. I swear." "Swearing doesn't make it so. Although, I see you believe it to be. I appreciate your empathy for the past, but the logical side of me has to ask if it's possible you tried something stronger than pot while you were in school?" Her face fell. "Aunt Meg told you about that?" "We had a quiet chat last evening." "About me?" Bailey had a wounded pixie look. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?" 47


"I hoped maybe we could get to know each other first." "I'm not judging you, Bailey." Her eyes narrowed. "You are." "Just trying to get to the bottom of all this. Maybe you're clairvoyant and had a vision, or maybe drugs are involved. You admit to smoking pot, don't you?" "Once." "Well then, why is it so unlikely that you might have tried a more powerful substance?" She lifted her chin. "Because I didn't take anything." "That you will admit to or remember?" She frowned at him. "Either one." "Then we must conclude you don't remember." "Eric! I'm not completely gaga." She started to whirl away, but he leaned hard on his cane and gripped her with his other arm. He might be handicapped in one regard but he still had the use of the rest of his body. "Hold on a minute. I care about you." More than he wanted to admit and fast consuming him. She didn't appear persuaded, but stopped trying to wrench free. "You're giving me grief." "Not intentionally. Stop me if I say anything that's not true. Deal?" She gave a reluctant nod. "You were expelled from school. Correct?" She pursed her lips in evident annoyance. "Yes, counselor." He ignored her sarcasm. "And they found a boy in your dorm room." 48


She made a face. "Peter somebody." Eric stared at her. "You don't even know his name?" "Don't look at me like I'm some kind of tramp. We didn't do anything." "Apparently your parents are afraid you did." "My father and stepmother, you mean." "I have one of those myself, remember, and be grateful you still have a father." "I don't need a lecture from you. I already got one from the dean of students." The flailing commenced again and he firmed up his hold on her. "Hear me out. Bolting won't solve anything. And unless you intend to knock this stick out from under me, I'm determined to talk this through. Are you absolutely certain there's no chance you're pregnant?" Her jaw dropped. "Are you my big brother now?" "No thank you." "That's exactly the sort of question Brian would've asked." Her voice caught on his name. Eric felt like a heel pressing her for details, but had to know. "Just answer me." "You have to do stuff to get pregnant, Eric. I'm not with child unless I got that way from Immaculate Conception." "Or were too stoned to remember." Her eyes flashed to his. "I am not a pothead." Her quivering lips clamped shut. Clearly, she wasn't offering further information, but he still had unanswered questions, and gently said, "You were always 49


unusual, Bailey, but not a rebel. What happened to you while I was away?" She blinked furiously at the tears welling in her indignant gaze. "Death, Eric. You must have seen plenty of it." More than enough for two lifetimes, but he'd determined never to discuss it. "I didn't turn to drugs." She muttered, "You were a lot more fun at midnight." He jerked his head at her. "What?" She bit her lip. "I mean Edward was. And he was sick and dying at the time." "Dead, Bailey. Edward Burke has been dead for fifty years." "And alive in this room last night." "Taking LSD even once can cause lingering hallucinations," Eric reasoned. "Maybe this Peter no name slipped something into your soda." Bailey started to argue then stopped. Her eyes glistened and a tear slid down her cheek. "Maybe he did. Maybe I'm knocked up and tripping, and don't know it." Eric gaped at her. She shrugged miserably. "No one says what they're really thinking in the family." "Clearly not one of your failings." Bailey's hazel eyes were liquid pools of reproach. "You're quick to remind me of those. I've already got Ella on my back." "Be glad she didn't overhear that last remark. She'd tell you exactly what she thought." "You seem determined to think the worst of me." 50


"No. I'm just trying to understand." "You're too square for that. You probably think hippies are of the devil." "Ignorant and antisocial. Not inherently evil." "Same thing. You despise them, and they're the only ones who ever gave me a chance. Said I was freaky." "Is that some kind of compliment?" "Yeah. Like far out and cool." "Speak as though you've got a brain, Bailey." "You sound as though you're from another century." "I thought that's what you liked," he tossed back. "In a gentlemanly way." The accusation ripped through him. Dropping his hand from her arm, he raised it at the ceiling. "Now I'm not a gentleman? I suppose Peter no name was?" She squirmed. "I didn't say that." "Or your adored hippies, perfect gentlemen, are they?" She seemed so thoroughly miserable he relented. "I'm sorry. Let's not quarrel. I fear I'm accustomed to giving orders and must remember you're not one of my men." "Is that so difficult?" She sniffed. He gave her a wry smile. "Not even if I were comatose. Forgive me, please?" She nodded, and didn't pull back as he slid his fingers over her cold, damp cheek. "You're chilled through and will make yourself ill next thing. You don't want to be sick for Christmas, do you?" "She better not!" The steps creaked and Ella huffed into the room carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of 51


biscuits with sausage gravy. She clucked with disapproval. "Picked at your supper last evening. Didn't eat no breakfast this morning. And now yer up here where you've no business being." She thrust the milky brew, plate and a fork at Bailey. "Sit there and git this down you." Eric watched Bailey select the chair to the right of the hearth and huddle on it wrapped in the throw. He limped over and sat beside her. As far as he knew, he'd never spent any time in this armchair, but it felt unaccountably familiar. He propped his leg on the footstool. "Might as well build a fire in here, if we're staying." "No one's staying, Mister Eric, unless you want to." He shook his head. "Just until Bailey's ready to leave." Ella flicked a tea towel over the chest of drawers. "Girl, what are you going on about?" She took a long sip and swallowed. "There's something I need to do." "In here?" "Not yet. I've got to search the attic first." Ella swung her bulk around at her. "What on Earth you want to go and do that fer?" "To see if I can find Claire's gift for Edward." Ella looked hard at Bailey. "How you know 'bout that? I never told no one." "Edward told me in a dream, or whatever I saw last night." Regret softened the disapproval in Ella's creased face. Eric was dumbfounded when she said, "I always felt real bad I couldn't find that present. Searched high and low. Maybe you kin discover a hidey hole somewhere." 52


Bailey considered. "Do you have any idea what the gift was?" The older woman shook her gray head and pointed to the desk and chair. "Miss Claire set right there writing Mister Edward a real pretty Christmas card while he was off in the war, but she wouldn't tell me what she'd got him. Said it was a surprise and hid it herself along with the card. Reckon she never knew she'd take that secret to her grave. To his dying regret." Eric had an odd sensation in his gut. Bailey took another swallow. "Ella, why do you keep this room shut up? And don't say it's because no one needs it." Ella's broad chest heaved under her bulky gray sweater. "Nobody in the family much minded me keeping it this way. It never seemed right having the use of the room when Mister Edward ain't quite done with it." Eric eyed her sharply. "What do you mean? You're keeping it as a shrine?" "More'n that. Every year, 'bout this time, I kin tell he's here brooding over Miss Claire. Never got to say goodbye, you see. Tore him up something fierce." Eric sat up straighter. "This room is haunted?" "Appears so." Ella swept her gaze over the furnishings. "After Christmas, I don't feel him no more 'til the next year. He comes back about the time they sent him home from the war." Eric could hardly believe his ears. "A seasonal ghost?" Ella shrugged. "I don't never say nothing about it. Ghost talk makes folks skittish. Mind you keep this to yerselves." 53


Bailey nodded. And Eric wasn't about to go around blathering about ghosts. "When did Uncle Edward die, exactly?" "Christmas Eve, just before the bells rung." Bailey paled. "Tomorrow evening." Ella was somber. "We had a party that night, like usual. I brought him a plate, but he didn't touch nothing. When I went back to see about him he'd passed, right in that chair where Mister Eric sets. He favored that chair." Her disclosure startled Eric. "Have you ever seen him?" "Caught a glimpse sometimes." Ella glanced at the dresser. "Miss Bailey, you been at the whiskey?" She gestured at two tumblers beside a decanter partly filled with amber fluid. Both glasses had the recent remnants of whiskey in the bottom. Bailey stared wide-eyed. "Not by myself. Edward asked me for a drink." "In yer dream?" Ella frowned. "Don't be getting into Mister Edward's whiskey. He said it was a special brew." Which left Eric to wonder how much of a role alcohol had played in Bailey's nighttime vision, and whether he was sitting with a ghost. He felt like he had the chair all to himself... Ella broke into his strange conjecture. "I forgot to tell you, Miss Meg says we're having the party this year after all in honor of your homecoming. She's busy inviting folks. Yer cousin Tucker Burke's coming." Ella rolled her eyes heavenward. "That boy looked like he been lost in the mountains the last time he come by. All that hair. Heard he growed a beard now." 54


Damn. His hippie cousin was the last person Eric wanted to see. He feared Bailey might easily be led astray in her vulnerable state. After their recent and heated exchange, he realized she was extraordinarily unique, but not mentally unbalanced. She'd suffered acutely from the loss of her brother and been under an enormous strain at home. Everything in him wanted to shield her and help her heal. Rather than expressing his reservation about his cousin, he asked, "What's Tucker doing these days?" "Playing the guitar with those grubby friends of his." "Is he in some kind of band?" Ella was grim. "The worst sort. Plays at them hole-in-thewall eateries no respectable folk would stick a toe in. That rock n' roll is the devil's music." Eric wouldn't say that, but Tucker's coming cast a shadow across his mind. "He won't stay long. His band will probably have a gig for New Year's. We'll weather his visit." "Like a n'easter," Ella said darkly. "Yer aunt and uncle is beside themselves over that boy. Wanted him to be a doctor." Eric gave a short laugh. "After he dropped out of college to bum around the country in that beat up van?" "Painted like a rainbow. Something ain't right 'bout that boy." Bailey eyed Eric curiously. "What's Tucker like?" Emma snorted, and said, "Hairy." And damnably charming when he wants to be. Looking at Bailey, Eric suspected Tucker might very well feel inclined to put himself out. [Back to Table of Contents] 55


Chapter Five Bundled against the chilly attic in her red cashmere pullover, green and blue tartan skirt made of Scottish wool, knee socks and leather shoes, Bailey bent near the aged trunk. Its dusky interior smelled of cedar and mothballs. The single light bulb overhead revealed the soft pile of silk, satin, and lace. Only the finer ladies clothes seemed to have been saved, almost as if they'd been lovingly tucked away for her to discover. She fingered a filmy negligee that must've been part of Claire's bridal trousseau, possibly for her wedding night. The nearly transparent fabric, like gossamer wings, seemed almost too exquisite to wear. Claire hadn't always donned the flannel nightgown Ella lent Bailey. She envisioned the very alive young woman she'd seen in the photograph and a healthy Edward rapturously entwined together, and a pang went through her to think of their tragic parting. Intrigued by their love story and determined to complete her quest, she set the negligee aside and peered further into the trunk. A beautiful dark green, almost black, dress trimmed in narrow, orange-red piping caught her eye. She lifted the midweight gown, likely intended for winter wear. The age appeared to be late Edwardian from what she could remember of her fashion history class. Assuming this garment also belonged to Claire, it must date back to the early nineteen hundreds, perhaps as late as nineteen sixteen. 56


Bailey straightened and held the dress up to the light to better admire the sheen of color. How lovely. The hem fell to mid-calf and was set off with a band of darker cloth. The fitted sleeves, made in two parts, stopped above the elbow and continued with a sheerer fabric to meet narrow, gathered cuffs ringed with the same colorful piping. The layered look of the top reminded her of an elegant jacket worn over a dress. The lace-covered collar outlined the high V-neck bodice set above the wide waistband, the center of which formed an attractive curve in the front at the midriff. Beneath the band, an undulating ribbon of dark green braid intertwined with tiny braid rosettes, outlined the waist. The centers of the roses were bright with the rich piping. On the left side of the skirt, a fold of cloth flowed from the waist to the hem in a gently gathered ripple. The back of the dress was stunning—a square insert of sheer green fabric layered over orange-red piping, outlined with sequins and yet more braid rosettes beneath. This charming creation appealed to Bailey's sense of the artistic. She carefully draped the dress over a stool and knelt back beside the trunk. Opening a wide box, she took out an enormous hat covered with black ostrich plumes that met in the front above a broad brim worked in a design of jet beads. The spectacular headwear couldn't be worn on a windy day without a hand firmly clasped over the brim or lengths of gauze securing it under the chin or the hat would sail off like 57


a parasol. She pictured Claire struggling to retain her hat and Edward smiling at her. Like a child playing dress up, Bailey tried the hat on over her long ponytail and posed before the full-length mirror propped against the slats that formed one attic wall. Her reflection showed a young woman, much like Claire, wearing the enormous hat of an Edwardian lady, her face shadowed by the brim. What a sense of style, of self, Claire must have possessed to wear such a hat. It made Bailey want to stand up straighter and meet life with more confidence. Returning to the chest, she drew out a fox stole and draped the luxurious fur around her shoulders. She didn't like the idea of wearing the hides of animals, but it had been ages since the poor creature met its end, and the warm stole was a link to the past, all-consuming to her now. Further rooting beneath the layers of vintage clothes led her to a wooden music box, on the top a picturesque scene of Venice and couples enjoying gondola rides. She turned the small key in the lock and wound the box, releasing the unlikely strains of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" into the cold attic. She'd expected Braham's or some classical air. But then, hadn't this song been popular during the Great War? The tinkling sound from the antiquated box seemed somehow appropriate for the old-fashioned love song. Images flowed across her mind's eye of Edward presenting the box to Claire and her pleasure in it, especially at a time when music wasn't so easily come by as it was now with radio and record players. What a quaint song, from a vanished age. 58


Thinking herself alone, Bailey startled when a male voice joined in, singing, "When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, Still I wander on in dreams..." She turned to see Eric emerge into the attic, more of a challenge for him to negotiate the steep steps with his leg. He steadied himself with his cane and continued in a strong baritone, "You, alone, my heart can cheer; You, just you..." Her heart caught at the beauty of his voice and the emotion she sensed behind the words he sang. He limped over to where she waited in the great hat and stole, and stopped in front of her. The tenderness in his gaze unmistakable, he finished with the song, "Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true. Let me call you Sweetheart, I'm in love with you." Not trusting herself to speak, she whispered. "You can't see my eyes." A faint smile at his lips, he lifted the hat from her head and set it on the stool with the dress. For a tremulous, heart pounding moment, he gazed into her eyes, her very soul, and she could scarcely breathe. Leaning on his cane with one hand, he cupped his other to her cheek. All her feelings for him swelled at his touch and a tremor of anticipation ran through her. Bending his head, he gently covered her lips with his, the softest brush at first, enough to send a thrill rippling through her middle. He deepened his kiss, pressing her mouth with tender passion. Such heated exhilaration, far beyond anything she'd ever known. The stole slipped to the floorboards as she circled her arms around his neck, kissing him back as she'd never kissed any 59


man or boy before with heart, body, and spirit. And if he asked for all three, she'd give them to him. But did this kiss mean to him what it did to her? Did he, could he, bear the depth of feeling for her that Edward had borne Claire? The bond between those two had been the shining standard of true love. Was such a heartfelt romance even possible in this modern age? After all, the world was much changed. Had it truly altered, though, in the ways that really mattered? Bailey only knew as long as she lived, she didn't want to kiss any lips other than Eric's. Did she dare to hope he felt the same? He slowly released her mouth, reclaimed her lips several more times until she was breathless, then kissed his way over her cheek and nuzzled behind her ear. Goosebumps flushed over her skin and she held to him until they both leaned on his cane for support. He laughed softly. "You'll knock us down." She smiled up at him shakily. "As long as we go together." "What a thump that would make. Send Ella running." "She can't get up here anymore. The attic is Ella proof." "What a wonderful thought." Eric held Bailey against his chest and buried his face in her hair. How long they stood like that she couldn't say. Then his lips hovered at her ear. "You are so beautiful." She shivered at his ticklish whisper and her delight in his declaration. "Really?" "Don't you know?" "Not until now." "You must not have been listening before." 60


"But what about all that other stuff you said? I mean, I know you don't approve of me—at all." "You've had a rough time this year. You can do better. Will do better." "Tell me you have every confidence in me and you'll sound like my father giving one of his pep talks." "Not at all what I intended." "I don't suppose Claire was ever scolded. She was probably perfect." "Pretty much," Eric agreed. Bailey pulled back and punched him on the arm. He chuckled. "You come near enough." "We both know that's not true." He gave her one of his melting looks. "How goes your quest? Find any hidden gifts up here yet?" "No. But I really like that green dress. Do you think it would be all right if I wore it to the Christmas Eve party? Edward said he wanted me to have the clothes in the trunk, but..." she trailed off at the bemusement in Eric's expression. "I'm sounding peculiar again, aren't I?" "That or you have the most unusual way of claiming an inheritance." "I didn't mean—it's what Edward said—" "In your dream." Eric didn't add, "or drug induced hallucination," but she knew he was thinking it. "Don't you believe a connection with the past is possible?" she pressed. "A portal in time?" "Yes." 61


He smoothed a tendril at her forehead and trailed his fingers across her cheek. "You are the strangest girl." "And you're standing in the attic with me." "Not the one looking for a mysterious gift." "But if you were?" He considered. "I wouldn't look up here. Ella already searched every corner eons ago when she was a spry young thing." "If it was in Edward's room or the one he shared with Claire, he or Ella would have found it. And Ella searched the house. Where would you look?" Eric shrugged. "I'm not certain." "You may think I'm crazy, but it matters." He looked long into her eyes. "You're not crazy, Bailey. It would be easier to explain if you were. But as you're intent on finding a hidden gift, I heard there used to be a secret passage at the back of the closet beneath the stairs in the far hall." She cocked her head at him. He seemed in earnest. "Are you serious?" "Utterly." "But it's not there now?" "Not unless it was boarded up. The closet's a dead end now. Ella might know more." "Ella always knows more." Eric closed warm fingers around Bailey's hand. "Before you take a sledge hammer to the closet and upset the household, please come downstairs and help me decorate the tree. Old 62


John cut a pine from the woods and set it up in the living room." "And then we take a sledge hammer to the closet?" Eric answered her question with a kiss. [Back to Table of Contents]

63


Chapter Six "All the way to the top." Scaling the stepladder beside the aromatic pine, Bailey stretched out her hand to place the magnificent star at the utmost height, ten plus feet off the floor. "There!" She smiled down at Eric triumphantly, her eyes luminous, adorably Scots in her tartan skirt...with no idea how powerfully she affected him. The saying, "fell in love" made perfect sense to him now, though on an instinctive level he felt he'd known her forever. Masking just how much that unnerved him, he saluted her from the ornate gold sofa made in the style of a fainting couch and leftover from days of old, as was most everything else in the house. "Mission accomplished, Ma'am." She returned his salute. "Yes sir, Captain Burke. Now for the rest of the tree." She scurried down the ladder and sifted through the box of ornaments Ella had left on the marble top coffee table. Some of the glass balls predated Eric's childhood and one of the angels originated in the previous century. At their right, the lofty evergreen exuded the fragrance of oranges and Christmases past. Choosing a red velvet bow, Bailey fastened it around her ponytail. "What do you think?" "The perfect compliment to the decor." She ran her appreciative gaze over the room. "It's a Christmas wonderland." 64


The fire in the hearth crackled cheerily, fresh greens and holly festooned the mantel in between the clock and porcelain figurines and the ancestral portrait of the lovely lady who hung above it, hair up on her head, creamy shoulders displayed above her mid-nineteenth century gown. Greenery decorated every piece of antiquated furniture, and a mistletoe ball hung in the doorway between the living and dining room. Wrapped presents spread over the wide piano, their bright bows glinting in the light. "I wasn't at Maple Hill last year," she said. "Neither was I." This festive scene was as far removed from the hard slog through treacherous rice paddies as anything could be. Eric thought of that hot, humid Christmas in Nam, the mess tent full of homesick Marines, and the jolly lieutenant who'd played Santa Claus to cheer the troops and the injured. All those sweat-soaked and at times bloody days seemed another lifetime ago, but Eric had the leg to show for his efforts and a half dozen medals. A pang ran through him at the memory of the buddy he'd carried to safety who lost both his legs. At least he'd lived. The second man Eric went back for didn't survive his wounds. Despite all the hardship, though, he missed those friends still living and gone, and the camaraderie he'd left behind. A part of him always would. Bailey touched his shoulder. "You've gotten somber on me. What are you thinking?" He met the question in her eyes. "Nothing I want to talk about. Ever." 65


A sense of understanding passed between them, and she didn't press him. Some things were just too raw to discuss. "Upset about me taking over your job?" She asked instead. He appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood; he was easily drawn into dark introspection. Normally decorating the tree fell to him, and the sense of loss at yet another thing taken away caused the familiar pain. He summoned a smile. "Traversing that ladder is an obstacle course I can forego this year. Besides, watching you is more fun." "I'm creating a vision of glory." "You have your work cut out for you. That pine isn't the most beautiful tree in the world." Gaps showed here and there among the branches. "But that's not a qualifying attribute in the evergreens Old John selects. It's stately enough and most importantly, big." "Right. Back to work." Bailey snatched a gold ball and darted up the ladder to suspend the fragile sphere from a green bough. Up and down she went carrying an assortment of baubles and angels. Eric hung ornaments on the branches within his reach, then helped her rearrange the ladder. She was off again. "You're like a chipmunk the way you get around that tree." "Chip and Dale?" "Or Alvin." Though she looked anything but rodent-like. She puffed up her cheeks, chipmunk style, and released her breath in a whoosh. "My voice isn't high enough." He sat down on the couch. "Try inhaling helium." "Is that what they do on the cartoon?" 66


He smiled. "No, they speed up the tape. You really think the man doing those voices is sucking in helium for every line?" "Guess not." She launched into her rendition of The Chipmunk Song, "Christmas Don't Be Late", by Alvin and The Chipmunks as she climbed up the rungs. He chuckled. "American Bandstand is waiting for you." ...And so, it seemed, was he, although he hadn't realized. A line of poetry ran through Eric's mind. The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry, or to quote Scottish poet Robert Burns, "Gang aft a-gley." He hadn't intended to involve himself with Bailey, quite the reverse. Yet, here she was reaching into the recesses of his heart as though he'd carved a place for her. She sang the refrain, increasing her pace with the highpitched tune. He laughed at her clowning then cautioned, "Easy, you'll—" She lost her footing near the top of the ladder. "Fall!" he finished, clambering to his feet. He flung out his arms and caught her as she tumbled backward, narrowly missing the coffee table. With her clutched in his hold, he collapsed back onto the couch. "Whew—that was close." She gasped, "Your reflexes are still fast." "So is my pounding heart. I might have missed." She turned her face against his chest and sighed. "No. I believe I'll always be safe with you." "I wish I could assure that." What was he to do, keep watch over her to see she stayed out of trouble? 67


Even if that were possible, she'd come to resent him, already did in some ways. For them to have any shot at a life together they had to respect each other. Not him eyeing her like a delinquent in danger of falling back in with the wrong crowd. She wasn't a kid anymore, but a young woman, granted a highly unusual— Meg's entrance into the room broke into Eric's thoughts. Her brows arched as she took in the spectacle of Bailey on his lap, clasped in his arms. He shifted his precious burden to one side and explained. "She fell off the ladder." "Thank heavens you caught her. We don't need a trip to the hospital now." Meg paused in front of a glass cabinet stuffed with curios, framed photographs, and old books. In her tweed skirt and blazer, she looked every bit the proper lady of the house. She seemed agitated and pressed her fingers to her forehead. "The weatherman says we're in for more snow tonight and tomorrow. I'm not sure many will be able to make our party." Eric met this news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he'd looked forward to greeting family and old friends; on the other, he was just as glad to keep Bailey to himself. But that was selfish. "What a shame," he offered. The lines at Meg's forehead deepened. "Yes. I'd wanted everyone to see you." "Some other time." "When? People are so busy this time of year with other engagements and they resume their lives soon after Christmas. And you'll be back in law school at the University 68


of Virginia unless you take that desk job in Washington, won't you?" "Probably," though gladness didn't fill him at the thought. Meg fixed her eyes on Bailey who'd gone quiet. "Your folks won't make it up from Richmond if the roads are bad. They can't risk being stranded with the children." "That's all right. I understand." But her voice was flat. Eric weighed the dispirited look in Bailey's eyes where moments before there'd been fun and warmth. She must be far more attached to her family than he'd realized. "I'll take you to see them as soon as the roads are plowed. My '64 Bel Air's parked in the garage, but we can get it going again. That car has a powerful engine." She gave him a half smile, but made no reply. Meg studied her anxiously. "Don't worry. We'll still have a good time. The nearest neighbors will come, and Tucker assures me he'll make it." Eric bit back a less than enthusiastic reply. "In that old van? He'll get himself stuck and I'll have to pull him out of a drift somewhere." "No. He said he's on his way ahead of the storm. Should be here later this afternoon." Eric blew out his breath. "Great. Arriving early." Meg frowned. "I thought you'd want to get together. You two used to be close." "When we were kids." "But you had so much in common." "That was before Tucker became a flower child. It's like he joined a cult." 69


A mulish look tightened Bailey's expression. "Being a hippie doesn't make him hare Krishna or a moonie." Meg wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Oh, I don't think he's joined up with any of those groups." "That we know of and there are other gurus out there promising enlightenment. Drugs and cults seem to go hand and hand with this craze. Even the Beatles, whom I also like, sat at the feet of the Maharishi this year." Bailey made no denial. "Even so, many hippies are perfectly nice." "And weird." She eyed him reproachfully. "That's been said of me." "No, it's not the same at all. You haven't cast aside every value ever instilled in you." "Not all of them have either." "That's what anti-establishment means, Bailey. It's the definition of the term and the hippie creed." "Maybe so. But you aren't even willing to give your cousin a chance." Meg offered her assurance. "I understand your concerns, Eric, but I'm sure beneath all that hair and strange mannerisms you'll find he's still the same old Tucker." Eric didn't particularly want to look. Not only would Tucker likely not appreciate the sacrifice he and so many made in Nam, he'd probably stone him, or pelt him with flowers. The culture war was as real in its way as the one raging in the field. But with the pleading in Meg's eyes and the censure in Bailey's, what choice had he but to try and get along? 70


"Very well, I'll give Tucker the benefit of the doubt." Until he proves himself utterly unreliable. And so it begins, Eric thought, sensing he was about to undergo the battle between good and evil, and he knew exactly what was at stake. Everything. Bailey. Fragrant steam rose from the mug of cocoa in Bailey's hand and the stove's warmth radiated to where she and Eric sat at the homey table. The comfort in the snug kitchen was doubly welcome on this raw day. What little light the afternoon held was fading beyond the window and increasing clouds promised snow. Come to think of it, the sun hadn't shone since her arrival at Maple Hill, but light filled her soul earlier today with Eric. If only she knew what his intentions toward her were for the long run. Maybe he was in the habit of kissing girls and making them feel wonderful... Aunt Meg's unintentionally brusque words came back to haunt her. "People resume their lives soon after Christmas." If they had lives to resume, that is, and clearly Eric did. Unlike Edward Burke caught in some sort of limbo and Bailey similarly trapped with no real direction. She could hardly expect Eric to put his plans on hold and remain here with— "Miss Bailey, stop yer brooding." Did Ella have eyes in the back of her head? The astute woman stood at the stove in her faded house shoes, stirring chopped carrots, celery, and potatoes into the meaty broth bubbling in a big pot. There was little point in attempting a denial. And now Eric scrutinized her. 71


Ella glanced over her shoulder at him. "That girl won't notice if I dishes up swill fer supper, so I'll ask you. If you had yer druthers, would you like cornbread or corn pudding with yer stew?" He swallowed the cocoa he'd just sipped. "Either would be good, Ella." "That ain't making a choice." He held up a hand. "Cornbread, then. Yours is the best." Her broad face creased in a smile. "Thought I'd make my Sally Lunn tomorrow." He sighed. "Even better. I didn't realize how much you'd spoiled me until I was away." She eyed him indulgently. "I missed you, Mister Eric, more'n I kin say." And I missed you. All of you." He returned his focus to Bailey, faint humor in his eyes. "I would have missed you terribly, if I'd only realized." Ella looked from him to Bailey, grudging approval in her scrutiny. "She'll do, I 'spose." As near to acceptance as Bailey was likely to get from the irascible old woman. "If she behaves herself," Ella just had to add, and then to Eric, "reckon yer off agin all too soon," which made Bailey's heart sink. "Don't rush me." "Ain't. But you was never one fer sticking around." "If I had my druthers," he said in imitation of Ella, "I believe things might be different." Hope stirred in Bailey at the promise in his eyes. "What would you do?" 72


He smiled. "Keep bees and plant a vineyard." Bailey considered him in astonishment. Ella asked, "What fer?" "To raise honey for sale and make wine. Thomas Jefferson planted a vineyard at Monticello and had high hopes for Virginia wine making. I'd like to prove him right." Ella appeared as unprepared as Bailey. "Well, I never. Most folks around here milk cows or graze beef." "I'm not most folks." Bailey nodded. "You're sure not. But what about your leg?" "Getting stronger. Maybe I'll walk someday without a cane and maybe I won't, but I think I could manage a vineyard with some help. I'd have to take on a few employees and learn the ropes. Vineyards are taking root in California. Why not Virginia?" She studied him in wonder. "Keeping bees and growing grapes sounds lovely. When did you come up with this?" "I've had plenty of time to consider what I might do while recovering and this struck me as something I'd enjoy, sort of a gentleman farmer endeavor like my grandfather undertook here." Ella's gaze had that reminiscent quality. "The judge bred the best horses for miles around." Ever practical, she added, "Takes money to make money. And years to make wine. Mostly the Burke's just rent out the land." "At least it's paid for. And my father said the land is everything. Maybe someday..." he faded off, seemingly lost in thought. Bailey nudged him. "Meanwhile?" 73


"Study hard, sit for the bar, hope to pass it the first time and that a Staunton or Charlottesville firm will take me on as a junior associate. It would mean starting at the bottom and a lot of grunt work, but eventually I'd make a decent living." He looked at Bailey. "What of you, if you had your druthers?" She hardly knew how to reply. "Getting into another college is unlikely and I don't really want to go. I thought maybe I'd paint—" "Not on them walls!" Ella broke in. Eric smiled. "How about on a very large canvas?" Bailey leapt at his suggestion. "Maybe up in my room with a lot of drop cloths?" Ella's scowl answered that question. Eric chuckled. "What about setting up in the old office?" He was referring to the dingy room in an outbuilding attached to the garage with sparse furnishings, a desk, chair, bookcase...where someone used to keep the accounts. She supposed it had possibilities. "But it's not heated." He considered. "It could be. What would you paint?" The answer came with surprising ease, considering she hadn't really decided. "The valley, the animals, and people." Ella rounded on her. "Not necked folk!" "No, with clothes on." "Humph." But Ella appeared slightly mollified. Eric's lips twitched. "Who would you paint?" "You if you'll let me, and Ella, Old John..." Eyes twinkling, Eric raised his cocoa to Bailey in a toast. "Sounds splendid. And you could display your work in art galleries; maybe even have a little studio in town." 74


"I don't think my allowance would stretch that far. Assuming my father doesn't cut me off entirely." Eric shook his head. "He won't." "If you behave," Ella repeated, as though Bailey were bent on a life of debauchery. "I will. Scout's honor." Ella still appeared skeptical. Bailey signed an X over her chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die." Ella shook her grizzled head. "Don't be hoping for that in this house. Tempting fate, it is." "Maybe if we found that gift and made things right for Edward—" Eric's low groan cut into her proposition. Ignoring him, Bailey continued. "I've searched most everywhere else. Ella, did there used to be a secret passage in this house?" The older woman looked at her hard. "Good heavens, girl, did Mister Edward tell you 'bout that too in yer dream?" "No." Eric waved a hand. "Guilty." Ella brandished a ladle at Bailey. "Well then, reckon it ain't sech a secret. But afore you think Miss Claire hid her present in that passage under them stairs, let me tell you I looked and that was back in the days when I could see good." "Where did it lead?" "Down to the cellar." "What for?" Ella spoke as if the answer were obvious. "To hide, if soldiers got in the house afore folks got out." 75


Bailey tried to envision the seemingly peaceful valley as the site of major conflict. "Which soldiers were they worried about?" Ella raised her eyes heavenward. "Don't they teach you nuttin in them schools, child?" "Yes, but—" Ella waved aside her excuse. "Fust they worried 'bout them English soldiers torching Virginia back when we was fighting a king, then them damn Yankees come round burnin up everything. How they reckoned destroying all that foodstuff was any help to us colored folk I don't know. We starved along with the rest. My granny told me. It's a wonder any of these old places still stand." Eric pursed his lips and parted them to say, "They must have missed a few houses." "Burnt most of the old mills to cinders too." Eric grimaced. "Terrible loss. Not sure why General Sheridan turned back before he torched absolutely everything. Guess he had bigger fish to fry." Ella shrugged. "He fried plenty by the time he marched them boys in blue away. Bragged how a crow flying over the valley would have to pack its lunch, that's how scarce vittles was in them days. Everybody, white and colored, hated Sheridan. Ever hear anyone round here giving their younguns that name?" "Never. So, when was the passage closed off?" "After the Great War we didn't figure on getting invaded no more. A fierce draft leaked out from that closet, so yer 76


grandpa had it closed up inside. Now the only way into the cellar is through that old door around the side of the house." Bailey bent toward her. "What's down there?" "Crates of apples, bins of taters, stuff you'd keep in a cellar. A little wine. My blackberry cordial, bottled peaches, green beans, tomatoes...odds and ends, nothing to interest you, Miss." The sound of a car in the driveway put an end to any more conjecture. Ella peered out the window and her mouth turned down at the corners. "Tucker's come. Reckon y'all will be having yer supper in the kitchen tonight after all. Give me time to git that boy cleaned up." Eric snorted. "Are you gonna hose him down, give him a good currying?" "Have more luck with a horse than that one I kin tell you." "We're about to find out." Eric got to his feet and picked up his cane. Bailey rose beside him. Captain barked in greeting and feet stomped the mat, then Tucker blew in the door with a jangle of bells. His blue eyes alight in welcome, he slid the duffle bag and guitar case slung over his shoulders to the kitchen floor and raised his hand. "What say, man! Slap me some skin." Eric stepped forward and gave him a high five. "Good to see you, Tucker. You made good time." "I was haulin!" "On these roads?" "Yeah. Did a brody." He laughed. "Almost wiped out. I would've been bummed if my old moby wound up in the bone yard. Don't have the bread for a new set of wheels." 77


"No, guess not." Eric glanced at Bailey as though in need of a translator. She smiled. Tucker wasn't as disheveled and disreputable as she'd been led to believe. He had a quirky sort of charm and the bluest eyes, but the contrast between him and Eric was marked, to say the least. Compared to Eric's military clip, Tucker's shoulder length brown hair resembled a prophet's. The beard she'd heard about was more of a goatee and reasonably trimmed. He appeared to have bathed in the not too distant past. Granted, having the flag emblazoned on his t-shirt was an error in judgment when visiting a recently returned Marine. The red, white, and blue stripes were visible at the neckline beneath a tweed blazer with suede patches at the elbows. The sort of jacket a college professor or English country gentleman might wear; Tucker's way of conforming without conforming, the hallmark of a hippie, and paired with faded jeans, of course. The usual sandals had been replaced by cowboy boots. Ella inspected him as a suspicious dog might a stray venturing onto its property. "We put you in the downstairs bedroom." She nodded at the kitchen door. "Across the hall. Right next to the bathroom so you kin freshen up afore supper." He clapped her on a meaty shoulder. "Ella, you're righteous. I'm twitchin' to take a wiz. But first," Tucker flashed Bailey a smile imbued with the sort of glory Eric possessed, only more dazzling. "You are one boss chick. Bailey, right?" 78


She nodded. "You hep?" "Yeah." She had a fairly good grasp of the situation. But no idea what it would all mean. Tucker wasn't half bad, Eric had to admit, but the living room literally vibrated with his rendition of In-A-Gadda-DaVida and he'd held forth for over ten minutes. This hardhitting song by the rock group Iron Butterfly wasn't at all suited to the sedate home or the festive occasion, rather like playing in church. Poor Meg tried to appear suitably impressed while her cheeks colored and she seemed a little breathless. What a performance. If Tucker's jeans weren't skintight, he'd gyrate his skinny ass right out of them. And when he bent near Bailey, the guitar resounding beneath his fingers, and in a provocative voice coaxed, "Oh, won't you come with me..." Eric balled up his fists. Bailey looked on, wide-eyed, whether from awe or stupefaction Eric wasn't sure. As expected, Tucker had swiftly targeted her as a desirable conquest. Earlier this evening, Eric overheard the two of them speaking together in the living room. He'd come downstairs from his bedroom and paused in the doorway as Tucker slid in beside her on the couch. "Wanna split after Xmas and tour with the band? Get to see a lot of country. We bring in enough bread to eat and crash." Eric had started to break up this tete-a-tete, but waited to see what she'd do. 79


Bailey gave Tucker a noncommittal smile. "I'm on probation, trying to get it together." "Come on, babe, tune into your inner mind." "If I tune in anymore, I'll lose it entirely." He grinned. "Chill then. Ease the pain. I was out in San Francisco this summer." She seemed impressed and Eric's gut tightened. Tucker hummed a few bars from the song San Francisco. "'Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...'" She sat up straighter. "Far out. What was it like?" He looked supremely pleased with himself. "Totally bitchin. Blew me away. Gotta be dullsville cooped up here." Exactly what Eric feared she might think. Bailey shrugged. "I'm cool with back to nature stuff. We have plenty of that. And I have a good reason not to cop out." "For real?" Tucker leaned in closer to her. "My hawk cousin?" She shied back. "If he wants me." Tucker gave her a disbelieving look. "Say what? Is the guy blind?" "He's got a life I might not fit into." "That's right on. Eric's too hung up for a righteous chick like you. Reminds me of my old man." Eric swore under his breath. Bailey raised her chin. "Eric's solid, when he's not uptight." Tucker nodded. "Hell yeah, he's solid. We go way back, even though we don't speak the same lingo anymore." "Then don't put him down." 80


"I'm not. All I'm saying is the man can't help his feathers. Bird's gotta fly with his flock." Tucker lifted his hand to her face and drew a finger over her cheek. "But you're a dove." She flinched. "Are you on the make? I don't know what you heard, but I'm not some kind of slut." He held up both hands. "Whoa. Don't freak out. We're just rapping here." "Why are you drawing designs on me?" "You're one choice chick." "Don't you have a steady?" He smiled. "Not now. You up for it?" Eric's abrupt arrival had ended that proposal. He'd wanted to answer for her and say, "Hell no," and punch his cousin in the nose, but that would distress Meg, likely Bailey too. No doubt Tucker would proposition her again and he'd offered Bailey a way out that some girls would find tempting, should she care to take him up on it. Though Eric strongly expected he'd ditch her somewhere along the way if she did. Tucker was long on charm and short on dependability, but could she see that? Eric clenched his jaw as Tucker crooned at her, crouched over his guitar. Long hair flying, he strutted around the room, really putting himself into this endless song. He'd probably be a successful rocker and have his share of followers swooning at his feet. Not Ella among them. She and her family fled to their quarters earlier, or she'd have put a halt to this performance. Eric had had enough. Rather than intrude in a manner that might further embarrass his stepmother, he broke into the 81


refrain with seemingly spontaneous applause, eagerly seconded by Meg. Bailey clapped too, darting glances at Eric and then at Tucker who had the sense to cease and desist. He flashed a roguish smile at her. "Sorry. I go ape on that number." "It was out of sight," Bailey assured him, while Meg smiled through her teeth. With an inquiring glance at her aunt, Bailey suggested, "Maybe something more Christmassy now?" Tucker shrugged in the easy manner Eric remembered. "Sure. I'll go with the flow. What chords you want me to lay on you?" Humor touched her eyes. "Do you know 'The Chipmunk Song'?" Meg brightened as though offered a treat, and this was a woman who appreciated classical music. Eric slapped his good leg and hooted. "Now that's the most righteous thing I've heard all evening." Tucker smiled wryly. "I dig it." "And while we're making requests, what about White Christmas?" Eric nodded at the window and the heavy white mantle closing in around the house. Meg looked outside. "Oh my. It's really coming down hard." Bailey turned her head, firelight playing over the gold streaks in her honey-colored hair. "You just made it ahead of the storm, Tucker." Eric wouldn't wish his cousin harm, but would rather he were safely ensconced by his own fireside with his offended 82


parents, which is probably why Tucker came to Maple Hill in the first place. Eric doubted it was solely to see him and Meg. And now, they'd inadvertently given him another reason to stay. Tucker shifted his gaze from Bailey to Eric. In that moment, he knew Tucker was aware of his feelings on the matter. Undeterred, the challenge in his blue eyes said, Game on. Maybe his cousin had finally found something worth fighting for. But Eric was way ahead of him. The cold was sharper than ever in the unheated foyer in the far hall with its white plaster walls and far-flung ceiling. Snowy light shone through the deep-set window above the second floor landing. There was nothing remotely cozy about this portion of the house and Bailey shivered in her pullover and skirt. Still, it was festive. Garlands wound around the banister up the curving staircase. Another set of sleigh bells hung on the heavy front door, but they were mostly silent as few visitors entered here. Most people found their way in through the homey kitchen. The strains of Silent Night emanated from Tucker still in the living room. He'd agreed to perform a medley of traditional carols at Aunt Meg's request, but Bailey had slipped away to pursue her exploration. He was quite talented and very sweet, though a terrible flirt. She imagined he'd draw a horde of groupies, given half a chance. But the affairs of Tucker Burke didn't concern her. She flipped the switch on the wall. By the pale illumination of the overhead light, she peered into the dark recess of the 83


closet beneath the steps. Deep and it looked as though it used to lead somewhere back behind the wall that now barred her way. "Not much inside, is there?" She turned at Eric's voice. His tall figure emerged through the living room door into the foyer. "Not that I can see. But I have the niggling suspicion this is the path Claire chose when ferreting away her gift." He stepped nearer. "Maybe." She straightened. "It makes sense, don't you think?" "I haven't the faintest idea where Claire went." He stopped beside Bailey. "How could I?" "You're Edward's great nephew and very like him." "I'll take that as a complement as you seem so preoccupied with the fellow." She gazed up at him. The lines of his jaw were a little tight. "You can't be jealous of a man dead for fifty years?" "But not gone, apparently." "No. I have to—we have to—help him." "Even if Edward and I were psychically linked, if he didn't know where Claire hid that gift, how should I?" Bailey lifted one shoulder and let it drop. "You're not thinking of exploring that cellar, are you? Ella seems to think it's a bust." "She may have missed something. But how can we get down there in all this snowy darkness?" Eric smiled faintly. "A team of huskies might get us through. Or we could harness Captain to a sled." "That outside door is probably wedged shut by drifts." 84


"Yes. But I suppose we could go down the steps." She swung her head at him. "How? I thought they were blocked off from the inside?" He answered evenly, "This way is. There's a small closet at the back of the stairs in the front hall that isn't just a closet. It leads to the cellar too, minus a secret passage." Bailey threw her hands up. "I never noticed anyone go that way. Why didn't Ella say?" "Maybe she doesn't want you down there taking it apart with a pick axe in your zeal. I'm not sure I do either." "I won't demolish anything, for heaven's sake. How many ways down to that cellar did your family need?" "Several apparently. I suspect it used to make a circle. Go in one door and down the steps, back around, and emerge up through another door. Unless you entered from the outside. Everyone in the house would've known the drill." "Very well then, sir. Shall we take the less snowy route?" He smiled. "You don't feel like an arctic adventure?" "Finding this gift before Christmas Eve is enough of one." She stared inside the darkened closet. "What if it were tucked in that passage somewhere and Ella overlooked it?" "Then we're stuck. We are not tearing that wall out, Bailey." "But we have to find Claire's present." "You're hell bent on this, aren't you?" She nodded wordlessly. "It's still a cold, dark undertaking for the evening. The cellar isn't heated at all, and the lighting's poor at best." He circled his arm around her, drawing her away from the closet 85


and against him. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. "Don't worry. It'll be all right." "How do you know?" "I just do." Reassurance washed through her and she relaxed against him, the arm Eric closed around her so strong and secure...his hard chest wonderfully muscled, his masculine scent clean with a hint of wood smoke and the brisk outdoors. Despite all her cares, she'd very much like it if he'd kiss her again the way he had before. Lifting her hand to his face, she stroked the dark stubble at his chin. He pressed his lips to her fingertips and nuzzled her palm. Tingles flushed over her skin. She tilted her face to his, and he softly covered her lips as she'd hoped he would. He held her tightly against him and firmed his kiss, her cold mouth rapidly heating under his sensuous pressure. Distracted as she was, it only vaguely occurred to her that the music in the other room had faded a while ago. Where had Tucker gotten to? She startled at the low whistle sounding behind them. Eric revolved with her toward the doorway. Tucker surveyed them quizzically, his guitar slung over one shoulder. "What's going down in here?" If she told Tucker her purpose in coming to the foyer and Eric's part in all of this, he'd probably think they were both tripping. Eric whispered in her ear, "The cellar will keep 'til tomorrow." Then to Tucker, "We're just chilling, man." Bailey felt warm to her toes with Eric. 86


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Chapter Seven "Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu..." Strains of the beloved song "Till We Meet Again" threaded through Bailey's dreams. Popular during the Great War, the song spoke of a soldier parting from his sweetheart with the promise they'd meet again. "When the clouds roll by I'll come to you..." Back, back her thoughts drifted on the wings of music. Images of Edward as he'd been before the war floated through her mind...a certain glance, that melting smile...Edward elegantly attired in a suit swirling her in a waltz, then later, dressed in his uniform wearing a somber expression. Dearest Edward— Wait, surely she meant Eric; the two men were fusing together in her muzzy mind. Difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. And it came to her with the force of a strong wind that she had to see Edward again. There was something she must tell him, though she wasn't sure what. An inherent sense guided her now, one that reached beyond everything she knew. Or thought she did. Shivering she rose from her bed in Claire's long nightgown, and slid cold toes into slippers and crept down the chilly hall. The pale halo from the lamp on the stand illuminated her passage. As before, she wasn't certain if she were sleepwalking or fully conscious, only that her feet led her back to his room. Again she stood before that dark, scored 88


door. Was it possible, could he, would he, be on the other side? If this were a dream, had she the power to determine its course? Be there. Be there. Trembling with cold, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird in flight, she rapped lightly on the door. Voice soft so as not to disturb Aunt Meg, she said, "It's me." "Come in." His reply was faint, but audible. Thank God. For a moment she leaned against the wooden barrier for support, her chest thudding. Hardly able to believe he'd answered, she turned the knob with shaking fingers. Once more, the fire glowed in the hearth and the air was much warmer than out in the icy hallway. Edward sat in the chair he'd occupied the previous night wearing his plush robe. Ella's throw covered his legs, an added barrier against the chill, and on his lap was a leatherbound book. Bailey closed the door behind her and stood quivering on the other side—his side. The room was as she remembered from her last visit, with one exception. On the wooden stand beside his chair was a beautiful, oak gramophone, a Victrola, she believed these old phonographs were called only this one was new. An early Christmas gift, maybe. And on its turntable a record played the song from her dreams...Every tear will be a memory, So wait and pray each night for me... Edward gazed at her, feverish eyes rapt on her face. In a hoarse voice he finished with the song, "Til we meet again." Her heart caught and chills ran down her spine. He was gravely ill; she saw it in his face, so painfully like Eric's. Not in 89


his worsening illness, but in the resemblance he bore him. Even Edward's singing was similar to Eric's, despite the huskiness. It was as though Eric was slumped in that chair dying right in front of her. If she didn't already know how much she loved him, she did now. Edward's eyes glistened with the emotion she sensed passing between them, and he smiled. "You came back." "I didn't know if I could—if you'd be here." "Only just." His voice was gruff from illness. Uncertain how long she had before he faded away, she rushed at him. It was all she could do not to fling her arms around his neck and crush what little breath remained in his chest. She threw herself into the chair beside him instead. A rasping chuckle escaped him. "Good to see someone run when I can scarcely walk." "Oh, Edward—" Lost for words, she heaved a sigh. "Such a weighty exhalation." He lifted pale fingers to smooth her hair. "How are you keeping?" More, always more, seemed implied in his every gesture, each utterance. She leaned her head against his hand. "Well," she managed, squeezing her eyes against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. "And you?" His cool fingers encircled her cheek. "Reading poetry, some of Lord Byron's work. Terribly sentimental of me, I suppose." "And romantic." Discussing poetry seemed beyond her now, but if it was what he wished. "Which is your favorite?" "Can there be any other?" In a low whisper, he recited, "She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and 90


starry skies...and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes—" With that, a violent spasm seized him. His hand dropped from her face, and he coughed into his handkerchief, staining it with blood. Gasping, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Wild ideas tumbled through her mind. Hopeless, impossible, but she had to try. "Edward, maybe I can save you. There's treatment for lung infections. I could bring you some medicine." She glanced at the swirling whiteness beyond the window. "I'm not sure how to get to town in the snow, but I'll find a way." He smiled wanly. "I've been dosed with all the medicine there is." "There's more now." "Since the doctor last came?" She reached out and grasped his shoulder. "Yes. Antibiotics." "A new one to me. But it's too late, Bailey." "No!" If she persuaded Eric to get her to a hospital and they made it through the snow, she'd insist she needed the prescription for a friend trapped in the blizzard. That might work, but what was the likelihood Edward would be here when she returned? Tears flooded her vision, blurring his dear face. "I'd do anything to help you. Please, Edward, let me try." His eyes fluttered open. Lifting his hand, he covered hers at his shoulder, his touch cool, but not deadly cold. "Don't you realize? You already have." 91


She clutched his fingers, so like Eric's. "But I haven't found Claire's gift yet. I've not given up—I'll search again tomorrow. Give me that long?" "Where have you looked?" "Everywhere except the cellar." His fevered gaze was pensive. "Perhaps..." She sniffed and swiped at her eyes. "Don't die before I find it. Please." A faint smile touched his pale lips. "I have little control over that." "Try. Say you will." He gave a weak nod. Raising his fingers to her face, he traced the path of a tear sliding down her cheek. "You're the most curious girl...and strangely wonderful." Eyes lost in his, she swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Edward, whatever Claire's gift is, she wanted you to know how dearly she loves you. That she never wanted to leave you, and she's waiting for you." "You seem so certain." Bailey could hardly speak. "I am." He looked hard at her. "Do I dream? Are you real, or an angel?" "I could ask you the same thing." His hand fell away and he coughed into the handkerchief. "I'm no angel. Ask the German soldiers I fought, if the dead can speak." He waved at the room. "Perhaps this is my punishment." His gaze returned to her. "And you're my salvation." She pressed a kiss to his hand. "Then be at peace." 92


For a long moment only the sound of his labored breathing carried above the crackle of the fire in the hearth. "Are you certain we haven't met before last night?" "I'm not sure. Sometimes it feels as though I've been sent back for you." He arched a dark eyebrow at her. "From where, heaven?" She blotted her damp cheeks on her sleeve. "There's nothing for it other than to tell you. I'm not Charles Randolph's cousin, I'm his granddaughter." So intent were Edward's eyes, then his mouth curved in a soft smile. "Well, Bailey Clarice Randolph, that makes one of us a ghost." "Or a time traveler." He gestured at the photograph of Claire on the wall dressed in a nurse's uniform, posing with a small group of other young women who'd served in the Red Cross during the war. How hopeful she appeared and pleased with the work she'd done. He spoke quietly. "Take a good look at her and tell me if she's familiar?" "Of course I know her. I've seen her." "Pay special attention to her eyes." The photograph was black and white, but something in Claire's expression struck Bailey. Goosebumps rippled down her spine and she swiveled her head from the photograph back to him. "What are you saying?" "You said it yourself. You were sent back for me." Her jaw dropped. "You think I'm Claire? I'm the ghost?" "I'm not dead yet, dearest." 93


"Neither am I. It's 1968—" He touched his fingers to her lips. Eyes drifting shut, he whispered, "Till we meet again." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight "Snow's let up!" Ella's boom from the top of the cellar steps was accompanied by the delicious fragrance of Sally Lunn wafting from the kitchen. "Miss Meg's got Mister Brown plowing the drive with his tractor and his boy's clearing the road up to where the snow plough's working on the highway. It's still rough out, but ought to open things up so the closer neighbors can git to the party." "Good!" Eric straightened from the assorted boxes, tins, and pickle crocks stacked around him and Bailey in one corner of the cellar. His leg was stiff and he'd gladly call it quits but knew she was set on going over every inch of the cellar. "You two 'bout finished down there?" "Not quite." "We haven't found what we came for yet." Smudged with grime from their labors, Bailey sank onto an upturned wooden bucket that acted as a stool. "We've unearthed a ton of other stuff." The attic wasn't the only catchall in the house and a motley jumble found its way down here over the years, button top ladies' boots and ice skates Eric swore were turn of the century, a catcher's mitt, checkers, chutes and ladders...an old schoolhouse bell...no wonder Ella hadn't wanted Bailey adding to the disarray down here. He lowered himself onto a stack of unused apple crates "Might open an antique shop with all of this, Ella." 95


"Ain't none of that stuff worth much!" "You might be surprised." His eye wandered to the shelves lining the gray, stone walls stocked with colorful jars canned from last summer's bounty and Ella's blackberry cordial, a modest collection of wine bottles. Wooden bins were heaped with potatoes. The crates stacked most everywhere else scented the musty cellar with the ripeness of fruit brandy. "We could wait out the war down here and not go hungry." "Some folk did," Ella shot back. "Only not this war. Confederate soldiers hid out down there. Give a holler if you find anything." "Their graves?" She snorted. "Ain't none of them buried there I know of. Might be a few Yankees. I'm sending Tucker down to help out. He's cleared the steps and walk, making himself useful." "Great! Give him a mallet!" "Don't you go beating at them walls!" She turned back to her kitchen. Eric noticed Bailey hadn't entered into this exchange; she'd been unusually quiet ever since he discovered her asleep in Edward's room in a chair covered with the throw. She looked paler than normal, too, and wouldn't say if she'd had another of her encounters, or hallucinations. Surely the effects of whatever drug she'd taken would soon wear off. He touched her cold cheek. "Where else do you want to look?" She lifted uncertain eyes. "You're the psychic one," he said gently. 96


"Is that what I am?" He didn't like her troubled expression. "Listen, I don't know what happened to you last night, but if you're going to make a habit of trekking to that room, we should heat it." "After tonight it will be pointless for me to go." "Because a man dead for fifty years won't be there anymore?" She sighed. "I know it doesn't make any sense." He shook his head at her wonderingly. "Maybe it doesn't have to." She shivered despite the layers of shirts, sweaters, and jeans she wore—they both wore. She even had a red scarf wrapped around her neck and a green and red Tam 'o Shanter on her head—adorably Scots. A raw cold permeated the cellar but he was warm enough. "If you're chilled down here, how do you stand that icy bedroom?" "It's not cold when I'm there." "Or you slept so soundly you didn't notice. I should think you'd have to be nearly unconscious for that though." "Or crazy. You won't have me committed, will you?" He blew out his breath. "I admit a part of me fears for your mental state." "And the other part?" He circled his arms around her. "Doesn't think you're crazy." She nestled close, and he buried his face in her soft hair, then whispered in her ear, "You're the most curious girl, and strangely wonderful." She gasped and a tremor shook her. 97


He startled. "What did I say to upset you?" "Edward spoke those very words to me last night." Eric reared back to search her face. Sincerity mingled with the shock in her wide eyes. Whatever she'd experienced was deeply real to her. "Did he also say he was more in love with you by the moment?" She stared at him mutely. "Spare a thought for the living, Bailey, and give me a chance." Her eyes, her face, her entire being entreated him. "Don't you see? It's only because of you that I found him, and him that I found you? You're connected." "But not interchangeable." She spoke softly. "No, but did you ever think you were brought here at this particular time and place for a purpose?" He had, actually, but didn't know what to say. Before he attempted a reply, footsteps sounded at the top of the steps. "Need a hand down there, Captain Burke?" For once Eric didn't mind Tucker's intrusion. "If you have one to spare." "On each arm." The steps creaked beneath Tucker's cowboy boots, and he descended carrying two steaming mugs. Rather than the professorial styled jacket and offensive T-shirt from yesterday, he wore a bulky blue sweater with his jeans. He offered a mug to Eric who took it gratefully. "Just what I needed. Thanks." Bailey shook her head at the extended cup. "Not now." 98


Tucker held onto it with a shrug and settled beside Eric on the overturned crates. "Ella tells me you're ferreting out something from the past? Message in a bottle?" Eric sipped appreciatively. "Something of the sort." Tucker eyed the collection around them with curious animation. "Ancient artifacts. Cool. We played down here as kids. Always smells like apples." He swept his gaze over the dusky cellar. The single overhead bulb left much of it in shadows. "I always kind of wanted to be an archeologist." Eric swallowed. "Think you might have to finish college first for that." Tucker made a face. "Heavy." "Take hold, settle down, son," Eric said in his best imitation of his Uncle Bruce, Tucker's father. "Can you picture me as a doctor?" Eric smiled. "With or without your guitar?" "Either way. Suppose you're cutting back to that Ivy League law scene soon after Christmas?" "I'd rather stay here and plant a vineyard, make some really good wine." Tucker eyed him with newfound appreciation. "Far out, man. You should. And I'll play at your wine festivals." "I need more money first." Tucker set down his mug and waved a hand at the cellar. "Maybe we'll unearth a treasure. Where haven't you dug yet?" "The floor is hard-packed earth, so we doubt Claire buried anything here." "Ella told me a little about that chick and Great Uncle Edward. Major bummer them kicking the bucket like that." 99


Bailey winced and bent forward, crouched on her makeshift stool, an arm wrapping her middle. Eric looked at her sharply. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. Hurts there on and off this morning." "You never said." "It's a little sharper now. Must've been something I ate." "How? You haven't eaten almost anything today." Tucker studied her with concern. "Go knock back some of that pink tummy stuff. Eric and I can take the cellar apart." She smiled faintly. "I'm all right. And don't let Ella hear you say that." "Awww, Ella and I get on." Tucker stood and strode around like a newly arrived general scoping out the battlefield. "This is like the old days. Remember playing hide and seek down here?" Eric nodded. "And all over the house." Tucker smiled. "Give me a hint, is what we're looking for bigger than a bread box?" "Maybe. I assume it's a package large enough to hold a gift but not too big for Claire to carry down here by herself. And it would have to fit through one of the cellar doors." Tucker stopped in his tracks. "Didn't Ella tell you Claire's cousin Edwin was staying here then? He might have helped her hide whatever it was." Eric clapped a hand to his forehead. "What does it take to get that woman to spill the whole story?" "Park yourself at the kitchen table, kick back, chow down on cookies and rap." "Ella does not rap." 100


"No, she's a real rambling rose—" Bailey broke in. "Any chance this Edwin is still alive?" Tucker shook his head. "Ella said he died of influenza soon after visiting Maple Hill before she or anyone else could ask him anything. Man, people dropped like flies back then." Bailey grimaced, and he hastened to add, "Didn't mean any disrespect to the dead." She spoke though her teeth. "It's not you. My belly again." He frowned at her. "You ought to split and go crash or something." Eric agreed. "See what Ella's got for a stomachache." Bailey would have none of it. "Just let me stay a little longer. Tucker may have a fresh perspective. Where would you look?" she asked him. "Somewhere you two haven't." "That doesn't leave much," Eric said. "Too bad we don't have floorboards to lift. Awesome to discover a stash somewhere." "Apparently Claire didn't need them." Tucker waved aside Eric's comment as though it interfered with his concentration. "The Great and Powerful Oz is at work." Eric smiled wryly. "At last. Wondered when he'd show up." Tucker raised a hand for silence. Angling his head to one side as though listening hard, he ran his gaze over the cellar. For all of Eric's objections to his cousin's hippie life style, he'd never thought he was stupid. Tucker always found the best fishing holes as a kid and seemed to have an uncanny 101


sense of things. This Great and Powerful Oz routine he did sometimes worked. He circled slowly, darting his eyes at every corner, then honed in on the second set of steps leading to the secret passage in the far hall. "Anyone think to look behind them?" Eric shook his head. "It's mighty cramped." "Yeah, but I remember seeing something hanging back there." "When?" "Years ago. You were it and I was hiding." Tucker strode over to the steps and peered around at the dark nook beneath them. "Something's slung on a nail." Bailey was intent. "What?" Tucker disappeared into the narrow space. "Looks like some kind of pouch a soldier would carry papers in." "A courier's pouch?" Eric got to his feet and limped hurriedly across the hard earthen floor. "Bingo." Tucker emerged dusty and triumphant from the dim corner with a leather pouch swinging in his hand from the strap. Eric gave a low whistle. "That must date back to the Civil War or further. It could've held documents, maps, letters..." Tucker seemed impressed. "Awesome, maybe one of our illustrious ancestors was a spy." Bailey beckoned from where she sat huddled on her bucket. "Bring it here, please." The two lowered themselves beside her on their apple crate seats. Tucker lifted the flap on the front of the pouch 102


and took out the first item. "A bottle of Scotch whiskey." He held it up to the light. "From 1902." "Edward's favorite," Bailey said. Eric and Tucker exchanged glances then Tucker reached back inside the pouch. He solemnly handed Bailey what looked like a Christmas card addressed to Edward. She carefully opened the yellowed envelope and drew out a vintage card printed with bells wreathed in holly, ringing out the timeless message, Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men. "It would be bells," she whispered. Eric remembered some reference to bells in connection with Edward's passing, and glimpsed the still-legible copperplate handwriting clearly penned by a woman. In a husky voice, Bailey read, "Dearest. With all my heart, I pray you are home with me for Christmas, but whenever you receive this, please know that my love is with you always. Raise a glass and drink a toast to us, my darling, and to a bright New Year. I am waiting for you, forever yours, Claire." A chill traveled Eric's spine, and for a long moment no one spoke. Bailey seemed too overcome. Then Tucker quietly said, "There's more." He withdrew a leather coin purse and balanced it in his hand. "It's weighted." Tucker poured silver dollars, half dollars, pennies, nickels, and gold pieces into Eric's cupped palms. He sucked in his breath. "Good heavens. Wonder what all of this is for?" "Maybe she says." Tucker fished back in the pouch and retrieved a folded note. He read, "Each of these coins is from a special year. See if you can guess what?" 103


"I suspect Edward would've been better at this than us, but..." Eric turned over a silver dollar and held it out to the light. "1916...the year they were married." He examined another. "1914, the year Edward graduated law school." Coins chinked together as he picked through the pile. "Some of these go back to the 1800's." "The years they were born," Tucker suggested. "Some are mid-eighteen hundreds." Tucker fingered his whiskered chin. "The year their parents were born, or grandparents, maybe. What do you think this collection is worth?" "A lot more now than it was then. When Claire put this together it was for sentimental reasons and didn't cost her a fortune, but now..." "Maybe you can plant that vineyard." He nodded bemusedly. "Maybe so. It's quite a gift." A guttural groan escaped Bailey and jerked Eric back to the present. Arms clutching her stomach, she doubled over. The card fluttered from her fingers. "Hurts worse now." Eric dropped the coins back into the pouch and set it aside. Grasping her shoulders, he eased her against him before she toppled onto the cold floor. In that instant he knew exactly what was wrong with her. But he must keep his wits about him. All his training came into play now. "You'll be all right, sweetheart. Tucker and I will get you to the hospital." He met his cousin's frightened gaze. "She has appendicitis and needs surgery as soon as possible." "Damn I should have been a med student!" Tucker sprang up distractedly. "What do we do?" 104


Eric answered calmly. "First things first. Will your van get us through? Does it have enough gas?" Tucker raked his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, man. Good old moby. Filled her up on my way here." "OK. Ask Ella for a blanket and hot water bottle to keep Bailey warm during the ride. Then weight the back of your van with some bags of sand from the garage and throw in a shovel or two in case we have to dig out along the way. Start the engine then come back to help me get Bailey into the van." Much as it goaded Eric to admit it, he needed Tucker's help to get her up the stairs. Thank God for Aunt Meg's party. He prayed the drive and back roads were clear enough to get through to the highway and that the snow plough would channel a path for them to the hospital in Staunton. And that Bailey would make it that far without her appendix rupturing. This all had a grim familiarity about it. Bailey blinked heavy eyes. A blur of white tile and whiteclad figures took fuzzy shape around her. She smelled an antiseptic odor. "You're in recovery, honey." A nurse held a straw to her lips. "The operation's over. You did real well." "I'll be all right?" "Sure will. Have to take it easy for awhile, though." Bailey sipped the cold drink, soothing to her dry throat, and tried to remember what happened. Hazy memories returned of that pain-filled journey to the hospital, Eric hugging her against him, every lurch the van made in the snow knifing through her inflamed side. To his credit, Tucker 105


drove skillfully under such hazardous conditions, but what a ride. She'd feared they wouldn't make it in time. Eric probably had too, but never betrayed his fears, kept insisting they were almost there. It had seemed an eternity, and death an escape from the agony, but it was as if both he and Edward willed her to hold on. At one point, she thought she'd heard Eric pray under his breath, "Please, God, I can't lose her twice." But she couldn't be sure, her cries muffled his plea. She must have drifted off again, because Edward's beloved image swam before her. Rather than haggard and lined from illness, his handsome face was smooth and carefree. Light shone from behind him, and he was trying to tell her something, but her foggy mind couldn't grasp his message. It troubled her not to understand. Later. She'd discover later... For now, reassured that he looked exceedingly well, she fell more soundly asleep. When she awoke again, Edward—no, Eric's—dear face took shape above her. It took a few moments for her eyes to focus. She realized he must be sitting in a chair by her bed. Overjoyed to see him, she croaked, "Hey." He answered with a glorious smile. "Hey. You sound like a frog, but how do you feel?" "Sore, but better." He smoothed the hair at her forehead. "Merry Christmas." "Is it morning already?" He nodded. "You woke up just enough to sip your drink and then zonked off again." "You stayed the night here?" "Where else would I be?" 106


"Didn't the nurses run you off?" He grinned. "They tried. I hunkered down and held my ground." "What about Tucker?" "He stayed as long as he could before heading back to Maple Hill. They only let family stay the night." "Are we related?" "Sort of. I told them I'm your fiancee." Her chest fluttered. "Are you?" His eyes brimmed with tenderness. "If you'll have me." She lifted her fingers and clasped his hand, started to speak and then was too choked up to utter a coherent syllable. "I'll take that as a yes. As soon as we're out of here, I'll scour the house for an engagement ring. Got to be one around there somewhere." A thought occurred to her. "Speaking of rings, I missed the bells last night." "We both did." "But I'd wanted to get that gift back up to Edward's room before then. Do you think he knows we found it?" Eric smiled. "I suspect he does. Because I do." He cupped one hand at her cheek. "You gave Edward what he needed to go, and me a reason to stay. You're the real gift, Bailey." The book Bailey had last seen in Edward's lap now lay on his bedside stand in the chilly room. By the cold morning light, she saw that it was open to the poem by Lord Byron he'd recited from and the final phrase underlined, whereas it hadn't been before. Her eyes filled as she read, "A mind at 107


peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!" And in the margin, in a shaky hand, he'd penned, "For you, sweet angel. You've given me wings." Was that what he'd tried to tell her? She could hardly see to read the rest. Eric stole up behind her and lightly circled an arm around her tender middle. "Shall I finish it for you?" She nodded mutely. He gently turned her toward him, still a little unsteady from her recent surgery. Without glancing at the page, his gaze solely on her, he said, "Do you know where you belong now, my dearest?" And in softest tones, added, "My Bailey, my Claire." A thrill rippled through her, and goosebumps scattered her from head to toe. Hardly daring to breathe, she reached out to him. Her heart was too full to allow for speech, but his eyes spoke for them both, and his lips found hers as he caught her in his arms. She was home to stay. **** [Back to Table of Contents]

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A word from the author... Married to my high school sweetheart, I live on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia surrounded by my children, grandbabies, and assorted animals. An avid gardener, my love of herbs and heirloom plants figures into my work. The rich history of Virginia, the Native Americans, and the people who journeyed here from far beyond her borders are at the heart of my inspiration. In addition to American settings, I also write historical romance set in the British Isles. Moreover, I'm intrigued by ghost stories, and Virginia has more tales than any other state. I find myself asking if the folk who've gone before us are truly gone, or do some still have unfinished business in this realm? And what of the young lovers whose time was tragically cut short, do they somehow find a way? Love conquers all, so I answer 'yes.' Equally fascinated with time travel, I write romance with forays into the past in my 'Somewhere' series. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication. For other wonderful stories of romance, please visit our on-line bookstore at www.thewildrosepress.com. For questions or more information contact us at [email protected]. The Wild Rose Press www.TheWildRosePress.com To visit with authors of The Wild Rose Press join our yahoo loop at groups.yahoo.com/group/thewildrosepress/

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Somewhere the Bells Ring

Somewhere

Somewhere

The Bells

Somewhere

R Mystery 03 - The Ring O' Bells Mystery

Somewhere towards the end

The Middle of Somewhere

Somewhere Along the Way

Somewhere Inside

somebody somewhere

Silver Bells

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Slay Bells

The Bells of Bruges

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

The Middle of Somewhere

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

fool's bells

Silver Bells

Somewhere Along the Way

Somewhere In The City

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Finding Somewhere

Somewhere the Bells Ring

Somewhere

Somewhere

The Bells

Somewhere

R Mystery 03 - The Ring O' Bells Mystery

Somewhere towards the end

The Middle of Somewhere

Somewhere Along the Way

Somewhere Inside

somebody somewhere

Silver Bells

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Slay Bells

The Bells of Bruges

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

The Middle of Somewhere

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

Silver Bells

fool's bells

Silver Bells

Somewhere Along the Way

Somewhere In The City

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere Inside

Finding Somewhere

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