Page 9 of Haunted
Again, Mark glanced away from her. After a pause, he said, “He had better be—according to Papa.”
“He will be gone tomorrow,” Francesca said. Surprised by the sudden stab of sadness, she focused on Mark’s imagination instead, and tried a different approach. “Why is Papa here and not at rest?”
Mark’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. He glanced away in silence, then back to Francesca. “He says because he didn’t want to leave us. He says he is watching over us.”
“He is not God,” Francesca said, more tartly than she had intended, perhaps because Mark’s answer did not sound like Mark. The words sounded more like…Percival’s.
She shivered. Something soft trailed across her cheek, like a breath or the faintest of caresses, and her breath caught. She had felt this before, in bed, only half awake as she longed for Percival, dreamed, perhaps, that he was not dead. And for those instants, she had believed it, before reality intruded along with the tears.
Her hand flew to her cheek, but of course there was nothing there. Not physically. But her own imagination was playing tricks, for she almost sensed his presence, warm, lively, and once so very necessary…
“You must sleep,” she said to Mark, rearranging the pillows and pushing him gently to lie down. He did not resist, although he smiled beyond her shoulder, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She only just stopped herself from jerking around to look. “Papa would not wake you in the middle of the night.”
Even as she said the words, she remembered that he had done so on several occasions, returning from a tour of concertsor just because he wanted to see his son smile at him. She wasn’t surprised by Mark’s skeptical look. Instead, it made her laugh.
She stroked the hair off his forehead and kissed him goodnight. Then she sat and waited for him to close his eyes and fall into the deep, even breathing of sleep. She rose silently and tiptoed from the room, leaving the connecting door slightly ajar.
As she climbed back into bed, she wondered if it was her late husband’s presence she felt, or the faint excitement of guilty new interest.
*
She woke withthe realization that today was Hallowe’en. All Hallows’ Eve. Not that it made any difference to her life. She suspected it was merely the discussion with Mark about Percival’s presence that prompted her to think of it. Though to be sure, Percival was no demon!
For the first time, it seemed, she could smile at his memory, the simple warmth of affection uncontaminated by grief. The grief would never go completely, of course. He had been her first love, and much too young to die. But for her own sake as much as Mark’s, she had to return to life. Mark himself was becoming a warning of what could happen to someone too absorbed by the past and what should have been.
Since Mark was still asleep, she went downstairs alone and found Ada in the kitchen.
“Sir Arthur’s gone to the village already,” Ada informed her. She sniffed. “Seems like a respectable gentleman. Courteous.”
“Indeed. Did he take his baggage with him?”
“No, he means to return, whether or not his chaise is repaired, to thank you for your hospitality.”
This pleased Francesca far more than it should. She was glad she had chosen to wear the lavender morning gown rather thanthe gray, which made her look too much like the ghost she was becoming.
After breakfast, she harnessed the old pony to the trap, and she and Mark made a quick tour of the tenant cottages to make sure none had been damaged by lightning or the excessive rain. Fortunately, they found nothing worse than a couple of minor leaks, which she promised to have dealt with today.
On the way home, they halted, as they sometimes did, for a cup of tea with Mrs. Gates, whose husband rented the nearest farm and cottage. She had a daughter the same age as Mark and a son a couple of years older. They were friendly children, and for the first time, Francesca encouraged Mark to go outside and play with them. Aware of the hostility in the village, she had kept him too much away from other children, but now she realized the harm it was doing.
On impulse, she asked Mrs. Gates about the children coming to Hazel House next week. Mrs. Gates looked genuinely pleased and agreed at once.
Francesca returned to Hazel House feeling better, more hopeful that she had since Percival’s death. They enjoyed a light luncheon while Mark chattered away about the Gates children.
When Mark sloped off to play with his toy soldiers in his room, Francesca cleared up and, leaving the used crockery with Ada in the kitchen, went outside through the back door to fetch water from the well in the yard. Ada could no longer manage the heavy jobs. Nor could Martin, really. Francesca needed younger servants, and preferably a few more of them, but the Martins had been with Percival’s family forever, and she could not turn them out. Besides, she was fond of them, and they were loyal.
Her thoughts fled with an unpleasant jolt. Two men stood by the well, sniggering. She recognized them as Jack Forest and Bill Kell, two of the most offensive villagers. Bill held a wriggling cat, while Jack pulled up the well bucket and rested it on the wall.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice sharp with both irritation and suspicion.
They were not remotely alarmed. In fact, Jack grinned. Bill seemed too concerned with holding on to the wriggling cat. With another unpleasant jolt, she recognized it as one of the stable cat’s last litter of kittens.
“Afternoon,” Jack said, as though he had every right to be here.
“What are you doing?” she repeated, marching closer, her own large, empty pails in either hand.
Jack looked at the bucket in his grasp. “Fetching water. You don’t grudge us a drink of water, do you?”
“Is something wrong with the village well? Your own taps?”
