Page 2 of Haunted
The thunder rumbled closer. The rain was about to get heavier.
*
Thunder crashed justas Francesca parted the curtains to let Mark see out the window. The boy jumped with excitement and climbed on to the window seat to peer into the darkness.
“I can’t see anything!” he said, disappointed, while the thunderclap rumbled away into silence. “Just rain on the glass.”
“In a few moments, you’ll probably see some lightning in the sky, like a flash, and then you have to count until the thunder sounds to tell how far away the storm is.” Francesca tried to keep her voice calm, since she didn’t want to communicate her own foolish fear of thunderstorms to her son. What she really wantedto do was hide them both under a thick blanket and stick her fingers in her ears.
But she forced herself to sit on the window seat while Mark stood beside her, avidly waiting. It wasn’t long. Lightning flashed, sudden and ominous, illuminating the figure of a man near the window.
Francesca gasped and leapt up, whisking Mark off the seat.
“Did you see the man?” he asked, wriggling excitedly. “Was it Papa?”
The clatter of thunder prevented her having to answer.Of course it was not Papa. Papa has been dead for more than two years, half of your life. She never wanted him to forget his father, but nor did she want him to imagine him in every shadow or stranger lurking in the garden…
Why was a stranger in the garden in the midst of a storm? On foot, shoulders hunched against the battering rain, moving quickly and purposefully…
The thunder quietened again into a much closer, insistent knocking.
Her breath caught. Mark realized it at the same time.
“Someone’s at the door!” He broke free of her, rushing across the room. “ItisPapa!”
“Marco, it isn’t.” The words stuck in her throat as she started after him.
Lightning flashed again, followed by an almost immediate bang of thunder that made her jump almost out of her skin. By the time she could move, Mark was out of the room. She hurried after him into the hall, snatching up the nearest candlestick on her way.
At once, a blast of cold air hit her, along with the too-loud pelting of the rain on the ground outside. The candles flickered crazily.
In front of Mark’s tiny figure, the front door stood open and the dark, threatening figure of a man stepped into the house. He slammed the door behind him.
Francesca flew forward to grasp Mark by the shoulder. Just touching him felt like a massive relief, but she still had the stranger to deal with. He turned, dripping, to face her. She raised the candle higher to glare at him.
Hewasa stranger, too tall, too masculine, and far too much in her house. He stood still, a large, wet bag and beaver hat grasped in one hand, gazing from Mark to her. Rain streamed off the capes of his greatcoat like a small waterfall. In the candlelight, the hair at his temples glinted silver. His face was unreadable but did not appear immediately threatening.
“You’re not Papa,” Mark said.
“No, I’m not anyone’s papa,” the man agreed. His voice was a little hoarse, perhaps from the weather, or from surprise, and yet gave an impression of vagueness. But his eyes, lifting to Francesca’s once more, were remarkably clear and direct.
“You have no business here,” Francesca said icily. Where the devil was Martin? Not that he would strike fear into anyone’s heart.
“No. Forgive me,” the stranger said. At least he sounded like a gentleman. “The boy let me in, and I’m afraid I was so wet I didn’t wait for further invitation.”
Words stuck in her throat. Should she betray vulnerability by saying,My son and I are alone, apart from two ancient servants, so you have to go? Or simply, rudely, command him to leave?
One should not send a dog out in such weather. And the stranger was already soaked to the skin.
“You cannot stay here,” she said, more annoyed with the situation than with him.
Besides, even as she said the words, she realized how powerless she was to enforce them. He was bigger, stronger, and all of her haughtiness could not compensate for the fact that behind her stood only a doddery elderly couple. And even they must be asleep.
An expression of resignation crossed the man’s face. He inclined his head, picked up his sodden bag from the floor where he had dropped it, and turned to the front door, reaching for the latch. Water spilled off his hair, down his neck, over his gloves. He was shivering with cold.
“Hecouldbe Papa,” Mark said doubtfully.
He could not, of course, and he wasn’t. But Percival had been a traveler in his time, too, caught in many a storm. And this man clearly was about to go as she bade him.
