The Lady of Shadows

By Susanne L. Lambdin

Lady Helen Fulbright suffers from partial amnesia, with no memory of her seventeenth year nor the terrible events of the night a fire consumed her family home in Dover. Left alone to raise her infant sister, Clara, Helen married Colonel Lord Alexander Fulbright and moved to London, but ghosts followed her from the family crypt with the message of, "remember."

 

Widowed a few months after her husband departs with his regiment, the 11th Hussars, the hauntings occur with frequency in daylight hours. Helen's young sister, Clara, often speaks to their dead brother, Andrew, and servants see phantoms in the hallways and hear something scratching in the attic. When an outbreak of rabies spreads through London, leaving the medical community and Scotland Yard baffled—for the infected attack without mercy and feed on their prey—Helen suspects foul play when her own servants fall ill.

 

Helen turns to Doctor Peter Cummings for help, a man who she feels is connected to her past. Romance blossoms between the two as the undead attack London each night, but unlocking Helen's memory to the past comes with fatal consequences. Abramelin, a necromancer, employs the arcane arts of the ancient Egyptians to seize control of London and of Helen. But who is Abramelin? Why has this man taken an interest in Helen, the woman known as the "Mad Lady of Fulbright Manor?" And can Lady Fulbright "remember" before her family, friends, and home becomes consumed by the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanne Lambdin
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393091066

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The Lady of Shadows

Copyright © 2019 by Susanne L. Lambdin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the email addresses below.

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Author’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

The Lady of Shadows / Susanne L. Lambdin –1st Edition

Book cover by A. R. Crebs.

ISBN: 9798605402602

ALSO BY SUSANNE L. LAMBDIN

A Dead Hearts Novel Series

Morbid Hearts

Forsaken Hearts

Vengeful Hearts

Defiant Hearts

Immortal Hearts

Dead Hearts: Bloodlines

Exordium

Medius

Ultimum

Dead Hearts: Night Breed

Blood Moon

Wolf Moon

Storm Moon

The Realm of Magic Trilogy

Seeker of Magic

Mistress of Magic

Queen of Magic

In memory of Grandma Lambie, who loved ghost stories.

REVELATION

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE EASTERN SIDE of Fulbright Manor grew the famous Barcelona White Roses. The delicate, small blooms with pink centers clung to spidery green vines with sharp red thorns that stretched along the dark stone walls. Named after the Spanish wife of the English lord who laid the foundation stones of the imposing manor, her precious bulbs, brought from Barcelona, bloomed the first time on the day she died. Despite attempts of subsequent owners to tame the roses, the vines tenaciously survived the old English winter and thrived in the summer. The blanket of white and green threatened to consume the five-story manor and now covered the eastern windows. Each dawn, sunlight greeted the roses, which opened when the sun reached its zenith above the green slate roof.

Gargoyles sat perched at each corner, roses at their clawed feet, nostrils flared but unable to smell the fragrant odor filling the air. Lady Helen Fulbright breathed in the scent, held it a moment, and released it with a sigh. She loved the roses, and the heartbreaking tale of the Lady of the White Roses struck a melancholy chord in her heart. A portrait of the woman, removed from the parlor, hung in Helen’s bedroom. In a gown of green, her black hair pinned, the eyes of the woman revealed great tragedy. Helen often wondered if the woman passed during childbirth, took ill, or died by nefarious means. Her ghost frequented the garden under a pale moon, and the flowers thrived whenever she paid a call.

Helen took pride in the roses but lacked a green thumb. Thick gloves provided no protection, and each finger bore a scar from the thorns. The task of nurturer belonged to the Jennings, an elderly couple who had lived at the estate for many years before her husband purchased it. They tended the wild roses with great success and appeared in the morning as regular as the sunrise. The old man cut the flowers, trimmed the hedges, and pulled weeds. His wife, bent with age, always hummed a haunting melody to the plants. Until that moment, Helen failed to realize it was Chopin’s Spring Waltz, now played by a string quartet in the garden.

Guests sat at tables shaded by white umbrellas, drank champagne, and nibbled at cucumber sandwiches or lemon cakes. Couples strolled through the garden or sat on marble benches with a view of the spectacular roses and listened to the music. Older men in top hats gathered at a punch bowl where an Irish wolfhound poked out his head beneath the tablecloth. Young adults played badminton on the lawn, and the laughter of children from the northern thicket alerted Helen to where her little sister, Clara, had gone.

Gray rain clouds moved across the sun to cast a shadow across the pale blooms, and a bee flew off in haste. Helen clutched the arm of her best friend, Dame Dolly Ashford, and stiffened her shoulders as she experienced a premonition; this was to be the last Fulbright party. Over the years, death had eluded her husband, Colonel Lord Alexander Fulbright, who spent the majority of his time abroad with the British Army. When I die, he frequently told Helen, cover my coffin with white roses. She watched the bee fly off, then turned to find her friend’s gaze on her face.

What is wrong, you silly goose? Dolly asked, then took a sip of champagne. You’ve turned pale. Don’t tell me you see a ghost in an upper window, Helen. Everyone claims the Lady of the White Roses haunts these grounds, but put those silly notions from your mind, especially today. Your husband ships out tomorrow with his regiment, yet you act as if we’re holding a funeral.

Dolly, I have a feeling I’ll never see Alexander again.

Would that be so terrible? He appreciates nothing you do. All he cares about is the clash of sabers and all those medals on his chest.

Helen stood several inches taller than Dolly, who was ten years older but had not one wrinkle at the age of thirty-four. Helen assumed Dolly, black-haired with an exotic look, had a little Spanish blood. Her own blonde hair, hidden beneath a saffron bonnet, was commonplace for an English woman, though somewhere in her family tree, a Viking had intermingled with the paternal side of her family.

I told you things about my marriage in confidence, she said, and wish to keep it that way. It will be quieter after he is gone, Dolly, but Clara adores him. If anything happened to Alexander, my sister would be heartbroken.

Children are resilient, Helen. You deserve better.

Our parents died when Clara was a baby. Say what you will of him, but Alexander has always shown her nothing but kindness and love.

Darling, it is inevitable soldiers die in battle, Dolly said in a softer tone. She finished her drink and set it on a tray held by a knight of the napkin that hovered at the table. Just look at Alexander and his Hussars, all eager to sail to Russia, while the rest of us remain in England to patiently wait for their return. Dolly laughed and squeezed Helen’s arm. "I mean, you patiently wait; fortunately, my husband is not a soldier. If fate intervenes, you and Clara are always welcome at Ashford Park."

Bless you, Dolly. Your friendship means the world to me. Thank you.

I’d do anything for you and your sister, and so would Thomas. I think of you as a sister, Dolly said. All I meant is I wish you were happily married to a kinder man. Thomas is old enough to be my father, but he makes me happy.

Helen tried to remember if she ever knew happiness in her marriage. Perhaps at first, she thought, but over the last eight years, any semblance of bliss had faded. Now that Alexander was leaving on another military campaign, she hoped the household would return to its quiet normalcy, but that seemed impossible.

Two days earlier, on 28 March 1854, Queen Victoria of England had declared war on Russia, and along with France, went to the aid of the besieged Ottoman Empire. Alexander was eager to leave with his regiment, the 11th (Prince Albert’s Own) Hussars, and pretended to act as if he enjoyed his going-away party. Helen and Dolly had put together the soiree in haste. A fleet of messengers hand-delivered invitations to friends in London, and promptly at noon, a line of carriages arrived at the estate in Hyde Park. Alexander, dressed in uniform, stood like a tall tree amidst the Hussars in their blue dolman jackets with elaborate gilt embroidery and pants bright as cherries. His regiment outnumbered Dragoons in bright-red coats and Navy captains in long blue tunics, but all were boisterous, high on copious amounts of champagne.

Helen thought back to 1840 when, at the age of eleven, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha arrived with his entourage in Dover on his way to Buckingham Palace to wed Queen Victoria. They had ridden through town, and she and her brother, Andrew, had cheered from the battlements of Winthrop Castle, her family home. Later, Helen heard Prince Albert, impressed with the 11th Hussars, had made them his own regiment. Even then, Helen had known she would marry a Hussar. Her eyes lighted on the rose bouquets on the tables. Their beauty no longer felt festive, but reminded her of a funeral, for most men going to war would not return.

The Russians see themselves as the ‘Defenders of Eastern Orthodoxy,’ yet behave like wolves gobbling up the Ottoman Empire with insatiable appetites, Alexander said in a loud voice. He was forty-two, in his prime, and tweaked one end of his mustache with a lean finger. Suleiman the Magnificent has asked for our help, and the British, bringing civilized men, must come to his rescue. In my opinion, the only thing magnificent about this royal Turk is his turban. Over time, arrogance and verbal hot air have expanded it to the size of an enormous balloon, yet his empire rapidly dwindles.

A young Hussar, with ears that drew forward beneath his cap, made a horrendous blustering noise to emphasize the sound of a deflating balloon. The men’s laughter ended the moment Alexander raised his champagne glass.

God, Queen, and Country!

Helen, without a drink, watched the guests lift their glasses, repeat the toast, and drain the contents. After several glasses of the bubbly concoction, she felt overheated in the March sun. She unfastened the ribbons to her bonnet, removed it, and glanced at Dolly. Her friend wore the latest London fashions, and for this occasion, wore a bright turquoise turban with a large diamond brooch from which spouted a peacock feather. Alexander spotted Helen and Dolly and pointed at the pair, intent on making a scene.

Ah, we have an Ottoman spy in our midst, gentlemen! Laughter ensued as Alexander craned his neck. Where is Sir Thomas Ashford? I’d like to ask if he deliberately spent his own coin on that monstrosity!

The same obnoxious soldier with large ears cupped his hands above his head to mimic a turban and snorted in a horse-like fashion. Laughter from the assembled officers brought a blush to Dolly’s cheeks.

Insufferable, Dolly said and pulled on Helen’s arm. "Turbans are quite popular this season. If Alexander and his war-puppies cannot be polite, then let us seek a quiet corner."

Darling, do not let Alexander know you are offended, Helen said. All he wants is our enraptured attention. Deny it to him, and he will quiet down or bother someone else.

Nearby, Sir Thomas Ashford stood immersed in discussion with a group of physicians. Older than Dolly by twenty years, Sir Thomas was known for his generous donations to London hospitals. Unfortunately, Alexander did not share Thomas’ philanthropic ways, but in comparison, spent lavish amounts to outfit his regiment. The expense for the party, however, came out of Helen’s monthly allowance. Dolly stopped a waiter, removed two glasses from the tray, and took a drink before she handed a glass to Helen. Reluctant to consume more, to avoid the pink-cheeks displayed by a tipsy Dolly, Helen took only a small sip. An explosion of bubbles in her mouth caused her to hiccup, and she returned the champagne to her friend.

The Russian and the Ottomans have fought for centuries over the slightest infraction, Doctor Nigel Fitzwilliam said—a robust man with thick sideburns. His meek wife, Nola, hung on his arm. Always quick to offer his opinion, he continued, A Turk and Russian are in the same dank coffee shop in Istanbul. The Turk refuses to drink vodka and offends the Cossack. The Cossack drinks his vodka, belches, and the Turk responds by drawing his scimitar.

This won’t do, Dolly said. If we must listen to my husband and his friends talk about the war, at least we can take a seat. How Nola tolerates Nigel’s bellows is a rare gift we do not share. I would wave her over, but she’ll only comment about the weather or read us a passage from the Bible.

Dolly Ashford! You are incorrigible.

I only speak the truth.

The pair found an unoccupied marble bench beneath an oak tree. Bright ribbons tied by female guests onto low branches indicated wishes for the safe return of sweethearts, husbands, and family members. An admiral of considerable years ambled past with his cane. He halted in front of Sir Thomas and removed his hat. Admiral Nimitz, with bushy white whiskers and a wrinkled face, wore his Napoleonic-era uniform, which hung like an unfurled sail on his thin frame, diminished in size from age. Sir Thomas assisted the admiral into a chair. A waiter approached to offer a tray of champagne to the doctors, but the admiral waved his cane to chase him away.

Thomas, what are you discussing? The war? the old man asked.

Ah, Admiral Nimitz, sir. We were previously talking about Miss Nightingale, Sir Thomas said and gestured at Nigel. Doctor Fitzwilliam says she is taking nurses to the Crimean.

Female nurses? Absurd.

Do you think she’ll be on a naval ship or a freighter? Nola Fitzwilliam asked and blushed when her husband frowned. I’m just curious, Nigel. He pointed toward Helen and Dolly, and Nola obediently joined the pair on the bench. Men never care about the opinion of a woman. Perhaps I should have remained at home. Clouds are rolling in, and soon it will rain.

Dolly laughed, but Helen took pity upon her pious friend and patted her hand.

That upstart, Napoleon III, is the reason we go to war. He had no business interfering with the Russians and Turks and means to restore France to her former glory, the retired admiral croaked.

It’s entirely possible, Admiral Nimitz, Sir Thomas said.

Possible? France is the one who ignited this powder keg, the admiral said in a stern voice, when he sent a Catholic cleric to serve as ambassador to the Turks. The Czar took offense, and in retaliation, destroyed Suleiman’s entire fleet. In my day, Russia was our ally, not France. Now that the spawn of the French dictator has sent the Russian ships to the bottom of the sea, we must send our Navy to deal with these upstarts.

Helen spotted a tall form pushing his way through the men. She gripped both Dolly and Nola’s hands on reflex as Alexander staggered forward. He placed his hand on the old admiral’s shoulder to catch his balance, crushing the gold epaulet, and received a rap on his knee from the cane. Alexander clutched his wounded knee and grimaced. The prompt arrival of Captain Charles Elliott, her husband’s best friend, kept Alexander on his feet. He caught Alexander by the arm and tried to pull him away, but the man held his ground.

What’s this? Are you protesting because you must stay home, Admiral Nimitz? Alexander asked in annoyance. Nelson was a hero of Trafalgar, but that was long ago. The British Navy will not win this war, not this time, sir. This is a land engagement. Our cavalry will chase those Russians back to their snowy realm.

Come on, Alexander. Let’s join your wife, Charles said.

Alexander shook off his friend’s hand and removed a flask of whiskey from his pocket. He took a drink as a young nurse in white wheeled an elderly general to the men. His feet, swollen with gout and bandaged, looked painful. The nurse remained at the general’s side but kept her eyes lowered.

This war is over control of seaports, the general said with authority. Admiral Nimitz is correct. Our fleet must enter the Black Sea to take control of the situation. I say bomb the Russian fortress at Sevastopol to smithereens and this conflict will end before it begins.

Applause from Charles brought a sneer to Alexander’s face. As her husband again lifted the flask to his lips, he glanced toward Helen, and his expression hardened. Helen realized then Alexander did not enjoy the party. He wiped a hand across his mouth and pointed at Helen. Dolly and Nola both squeezed her hands.

Ah, the enemy is positioned on our left flank, gentlemen!

And they are quite lovely too, Charles blurted and stuck out a leg. I see you admire our red breeches, ladies. Our devilish appearance will strike fear in the hearts of the Russians.

The old admiral used his cane to brush Alexander and Charles aside. He stood with the help of Sir Thomas, took several steps, stopped, and stared intently at the women. Helen liked Admiral Nimitz; she had known him all her life. When he visited her parents in Dover, her Uncle Paul, a Navy man, came with him. Nimitz’s uniform had fit in those days, his spine was erect, his eyes sharp as tacks, and his hair had not yet turned white.

If I was married to your beautiful wife, Lord Fulbright, the admiral said, "I would never leave England. Helen has always been gracious to me. She takes after her uncle, who started his career as a midshipman on my ship, the HMS Indefatigable. Your wife is quite exceptional too, Sir Thomas, and has the dark look of a Spanish lady. He made no comment about Nola, plain and humble, who clutched a small Bible on her lap. Quite sensible, Sir Thomas, keeping your pretty wife occupied with children. How many do you now have? Six or seven?"

Five, Sir Thomas said with pride. Never fear, Alexander. My wife will keep her eyes on Lady Fulbright, and I will keep mine on the pair of them.

You do that, Ashford.

Alexander approached the bench, his steps uneven from alcohol, and held out his hand. Charles wore an apologetic expression but did not approach the seat.

Come, dearest, Helen’s husband said. Let’s take a stroll before these old veterans fill your head with compliments.

Alexander pulled Helen from the bench as Dolly and Nola remained seated. He kept her hand as they walked along a stone path bordered by young saplings. The whiskey on his breath was foul, and Helen kept her head averted and suffered in silence as they strolled through the grounds. Every woman glanced at her husband. He was exceptionally handsome, was aware of this fact, and smiled wide.

Philandering abroad was one thing, Helen thought, but not at home. Their intimacy had dwindled in the first year of marriage, her wedding night a complete disaster, and they slept in separate rooms. Yet, neighbors gossiped in Hyde Park, and she tried to distract her husband before he singled out a companion among the unattached women.

Alexander, guests are starting to leave. We must say our farewells.

Let them go, he said with disdain. Most of these people are your friends, not mine. I think you invited those old goats who fought for the Duke of Wellington to annoy me. General Wilson is a cripple and a bore, and I never liked Nimitz. Both were friends of your father and uncle. Why invite those drab surgeons to my home? It is disrespectful, Helen. Fitzwilliam is the only doctor I respect, and the only reason I am not stuck in a wheelchair with one serviceable leg.

Yes, I know, dear. You met in Africa.

Her husband’s eyes narrowed in warning.

My point is I detest bone-hackers. You must not introduce Clara to people beneath our social rank. You are the wife of a baron for God’s sake. Doctors are no better than bricklayers. Alexander squeezed her fingers in an unforgiving manner. He meant to leave bruises, but his displeasure was commonplace. Your frivolous nature and the amount of money spent on this party irks me, he said. And worrying about Clara in your care has grown exhausting. I mean to do something about it.

Nothing is going to happen to Clara. I can take care of my sister, Helen said. She wanted to add the walls that surrounded the estate were high enough to keep anyone out, but the whereabouts of her sister remained a mystery. The overindulged, precocious eight-year-old girl was a mastermind of unmanageable mischief. Helen suspected her sister sat in her usual perch on the limb of an oak tree.

My dear, when you interrupt, it angers me. I do not tolerate insolence from my men, nor will I from you. When I am gone, you will do as Bramhurst says.

He is a butler!

Nevertheless, I intend to leave him with strict instructions.

Since you returned last month, all you have done is drill your men. We have seen you for only three days, and you came home with friends, Helen said. A soothing tone to calm her husband’s stormy emotions had no effect, for her words laced with criticism further annoyed him.

Elliott is a gentleman. My sergeant and corporal go wherever I go. You need not know the details, but I prefer their company over yours.

Think of Clara, she said, not sure why she argued. This time you face Russian cannons, Alexander. Have you not enough scars without maiming yourself for life? She had lost count of how many horses he had lost and worried his stallion, Hercules, would suffer the same fate.

Your concern for my safety sounds like nagging. Alexander nodded politely at a passing couple. I cannot remember the last time you graced my bed. I make camp across the hall, but hear you at night, screaming at shadows. This topic has long lost its charm. If you still cry for the dead, then your tears will never end. It’s likely I will not return this time, so take heart, as your freedom is near at hand.

Time does little to heal the loss of my parents and brother, Helen said, hurt by his callous remark. Yet, she offered no concern for his possible death. It was a mistake, and his fingers clenched tight on her hand. There is nothing wrong with me, Alexander. Do not suggest I see another specialist, for I will not. The last doctor told me grief is perfectly natural. Nor did he put a time limit on my sorrow, as you do.

That personal trauma occurred eight years ago, yet remains firmly embedded in your brain, he said. Your little sister is convinced ghosts flit about the house. Your mental illness is contagious. You will do what Bramhurst says and take your tonic.

I am faulted for having a mind of my own.

Your thoughts are dark and twisted to match your black heart.

Am I to shoulder the blame for everything? You had not shown me love these last few years, if ever. You only married me for my inheritance.

I am the husband! I plunge my anchor into whatever harbor suits me, Alexander said and squeezed her fingers even harder. "Our funds run low. Be frugal, my dear. Be cautious. My solicitor, Plummer, will handle your financial affairs, as always. That tongue-padder will tell me if you dip into my bank account. No more parties, Helen. No more gowns. You will obey."

Dragged to a halt beneath the branches of a two-hundred-year-old oak tree, Helen pressed against the bark, grateful when the groom’s Irish wolfhounds chose that moment to snatch a cured ham off a table. In the commotion, Alexander released her arm to cup his hand over his mouth to shout, Mr. Langley! Get a leash on those beasts!

She placed her hands on the tree and felt the deep notches where Henry VIII had carved his initials. Her eyes settled on the massive mansion—dark stones and four stories high with gargoyles that leered down at the guests. The house stood on the remains of a hunting lodge where the king had taken Anne Boleyn, and the staff swore that on a full moon, they heard the call of the hunting horn before ghostly forms raced across the lawn in pursuit of a shadowy fox.

As soon as the groom with his two sons managed to control the dogs, Alexander leaned against the tree and offered her a dazzling smile. She assumed people watched as he leaned close and kissed her. A wave of nausea overcame her, for his lips parted and his tongue flicked into her mouth. She pushed him back, but he caught her chin in his hand, leaned close, and hissed into her ear.

Disobedience in a wife is something I won’t tolerate, Helen. I provide a roof over your and Clara’s heads, yet you persist in doing whatever you please. When I come back....

If you come back, Helen interrupted out of spite.

Poisoning Clara’s mind against me is a mistake. With a snap of my fingers, I can send you to Bedlam. Your sister is the only reason you remain here.

Sir, you are an uncharitable drunk.

Alexander stood straight and clenched his hands. If that is how you feel, perhaps I should reconsider our arrangement, he said. Divorcing you would alleviate many problems and rid me of a shrew.

You wouldn’t dare! What would people say? Think of Clara’s future.

I am, he said. The girl will remain here, but you may leave.

And where should I go? Helen asked, horrified.

To your family’s crypt in Dover, for all I care.

With a laugh, he slapped away a slender tree limb and stalked across the yard to rejoin his friends. Helen moved behind the tree as tears slid down her cheeks. His threats to send her packing were nothing new, but this time he sounded sincere. As she sniffled, Captain Elliott approached, handkerchief in hand.

I have come to the rescue, Charles said and dabbed her cheeks. Pay no attention to Alexander. When he’s sober, he’s a bore, but when he drinks, he’s a devil.

All he loves is his regiment. You’re more wife to him than I am.

Harsh but true. Then, I don’t mind pulling off his boots. Charles smiled. I promise to set him straight, Helen. Nor will I allow Alexander to lock you away from the world.

Helen felt her cheeks grow warm. I am strong as this oak tree, Captain Elliott, and can withstand all storms, she said.

"Call me Charles, please, the captain said and took her hand. All the times I have visited this house, I have come to appreciate your intelligence, wit, and beauty. Disregard anything your husband told you. All will be well."

You’ve always been kind to me, Charles. Together, we will survive this war and Alexander Fulbright’s folly.

In that case, it is time to jump into the fray, Charles said. Master Sergeant O’Bannon and Corporal Kerry entered your house without an invitation. I suspect they search for a stronger brew. If you will accompany me, I will toss the scoundrels out and secure the safety of your home.

Lead on, Captain Elliott!

With haste, they headed to the front of the large house. On the north corner stood a medieval tower from which flew the Union Jack. Further to the left were the stables and a cottage where the groom and his two sons lived, another for the gardener and his wife, and a third for tack. Bramhurst, a tall, stately figure of a man, placed the master’s trunks near the door. Giggles from the parlor drew Helen and Charles to the entrance. A young officer held the hands of Maeve, the head maid, and whispered earnestly into her ear. The girl blushed to see her employer and the captain, quickly backed away from her wooer, and ran from the parlor.

Lieutenant Harrington! Charles barked. Come here! The officer hastened to his captain. O’Bannon and Kerry are on the prowl. Go upstairs with the butler to find them while I reconnoiter the lower level with Lady Fulbright.

Yes, sir!

Charles glanced at Helen. Where should we go first?

Pounding on piano keys in the adjacent conservatory alerted Helen of the location of the scoundrels. She pulled the captain’s arm, and they entered a large round room, which a prior owner had added on much earlier to the original structure. Guests were visible outside twelve tall windows, partially blocked by several palm trees and exotic plants that thrived in the eastern sunlight. Corporal Kerry sat on the piano bench with a young woman giggling at his advances. At one look from Charles, the corporal lifted a bottle of wine, took a drink, and pulled the woman into his arms for a wet kiss.

Return to your father, young lady. Pray your mother never learns of this folly, Charles said, furious. The girl lowered her head and rushed from the room. Corporal Kerry! Take your worthless hide outside and wait for me. Where is O’Bannon?

"I’m not his keeper, you demon," the red-haired man said and took another swig.

Perhaps you should return to the barracks. Get your bag, saddle your horse, and leave immediately. That’s a direct order, you Irish rascal!

The corporal drunkenly made his way across the floor. Helen cringed when she saw his trousers were unfastened. Charles grabbed Kerry by the front of his blue jacket and dragged him into the parlor. The scandal would reverberate through London long after Alexander departed, she thought, further alarmed to hear strange groans in the servants’ hallway. She picked up her skirts and hurried into the hall. Sergeant O’Bannon, a large man with white hair, had pushed Maeve against the wall and was in the process of hoisting her skirt. At Helen’s approach, he pushed the sobbing girl aside and laughed when she ran to the back of the house.

A soldier has needs, O’Bannon grumbled.

Find what you need at the East End. Leave at once and do not return, Helen replied, shocked her husband had brought home such degenerates.

Alexander says who goes and stays. Might be he wants you to leave. I found a liquor cabinet locked as tight as your maid’s thighs. Unless you want to open up for me, go back to your guests.

As the sergeant staggered forward, a gold frame slid from his sash and crashed to the floor, scattering tiny pieces of glass. With a contemptuous laugh, O’Bannon kicked the remnants toward her.

That’s a photograph of my family, Helen cried.

She knelt to retrieve the precious photograph taken of the Winthrop family in 1837. The photo was one of the few things that remained after a fire destroyed their home. Her mother sat with Lord William Winthrop behind her, a hand on her shoulder, and Andrew, dressed in a sailor’s suit, held Helen’s hand. She was Clara’s age in the photo, though she lacked curls and a smile. The keepsake from her bedroom meant O’Bannon had entered to steal it. He wore his busby sack at his side, and she wondered what else he had appropriated. Her eyes returned to the photo, and she gazed, transfixed, as a ghostly image appeared behind her family. Not there before, it reminded her of the spiritual photographs sold at stores in Piccadilly.

Helen felt a sudden drop in temperature, a coldness that spread throughout her body and left goosebumps on her arms. The sergeant reacted with a shiver. His saber rattled at his side and he lifted a finger to point toward the entrance to the conservatory.

It’s as cold as the Khyber Pass, O’Bannon gasped. Men froze to death. Their fingers and faces turned black. Private Rice died that night. It’s not possible, but the lad stands right behind you!

What are you going on about? Helen asked. She glanced over her shoulder, saw no specter, but heard goblin-like whispers from the music room. The gas lighting, installed a decade earlier, required a match to light, but flames suddenly sparked to life in every lamp along the walls.

Don’t you see him? O’Bannon, eyes wide with fright, reached for his saber. Rice? Damn you! It’s not my fault! Go away!

The large man was flung backward, as if by invisible hands. He landed on his back, hit his head on the floor and lay still. Helen’s heart raced as wisps of white smoke appeared behind the sergeant. The form of a private in the 11th Hussars formed and hovered over the master sergeant, and ghostly hands clasped about the sergeant’s throat. As O’Bannon started to gurgle, Helen lifted her skirts and rushed into the conservatory.

The photo slid from her fingers.

Every chair was stacked in the center of the room. A tinkle from the upper register of the ivory keys was accompanied by a cold breeze that blew into the room, and the chandelier over her head swayed. A ghostly form in a wig and frock coat appeared on the piano bench and played a waltz by Mozart. Helen stared in shock as dozens of ghostly partners in outdated garb glided around the room. Her vision blurred as they moved faster until she felt as if she spun among them. She heard a ghostly voice say, ‘Remember,’ and a cold hand landed on her shoulder.

With a loud scream, she collapsed to the floor.

When she awoke, it was to the sharp tang of smelling salts. Helen lay on a couch in the parlor in front of the unlit fireplace. A man in a gray suit, with a mustache, and sideburns neatly trimmed, knelt beside her. He withdrew the vial, placed a cold hand on her brow, and then touched her wrist, where she felt her pulse thump against his fingers.

Who are you? Helen asked, still dazed.

I am a doctor. There is no need to be alarmed.

But what happened? Did you hear a waltz? Did you see the dancers?

The man glanced toward the French doors. Only silence came from the music room, and he gave a shake of his head.

I’m afraid I did not, he said in a gentle voice. Rest a while longer. I assure you, you are quite safe. Apparently, you fainted. I carried you to this room and placed you on the couch. Are you comfortable?

Helen felt soft pillows beneath her head and a warm blanket across her legs. Her dress, no doubt, bore creases from her prone position. The man seemed satisfied but kept hold of her wrist. His eyes were a light shade of gray, intense and sharp as if he were trying to read her mind. A tingle ignited in the pit of her stomach and spread fast through her body. Not handsome, she thought, for that was a generous description, but she felt a peculiar attraction to the man. She felt she knew him but did not know where they had met. His gaze lowered to her lips as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her.

You’re as beautiful as I remember.

I’m bewildered. I don’t remember fainting.

What do you remember? he asked.

The sergeant...he broke a frame that contained an old photograph of my family. When it hit the floor, something horrible happened. All the chairs were stacked in the music room. Specters danced to a ghostly waltz, and I must have fainted. Helen watched the corners of his mouth tilt downwards. You don’t believe me.

Disappointment haunted his eyes as if he had expected her to say something else. He did not respond and released her wrist to stand. Helen reached for his hand, but his fingers slid through her own as if he were a ghost.

The hour is late, and I must leave, he said.

Wait, she cried as he drifted away. Please tell me your name!

I shouldn’t have to, Helen! His voice was stern. His eyes narrowed, almost cruel in their intensity, and he snapped his fingers. With a flicker, her eyes closed, and she collapsed against the pillows.

The sound of light footsteps awoke her.

Helen sat up, stiff from shoulders to knees, and placed her feet on the floor. As she turned to the doorway, Clara, in her pink dress and platinum curls, skipped across the room. The girl placed a white rose on the low table and threw herself into Helen’s arms. Icing covered Clara’s face, and a swift kiss left Helen with a sticky spot on her cheek.

Where is everyone? Helen asked.

Sleepyhead, you napped most of the afternoon. Dame Ashford was worried. She left with the rest of your guests an hour ago. Mrs. Hudson told everyone you had a headache. I think Cook made you a pot of tea. You drank some, for there is the cup, and it’s still half-full.

Helen gazed at the table to find a porcelain teapot and two cups, along with a vial that contained a curious blue liquid. The word tonic written on the label alarmed her more than a long afternoon nap. She vaguely recollected someone had played a waltz, and people danced in the conservatory. Drinking a cup of tea did not register in her mind, nor who had joined her. On closer inspection, the second cup appeared clean.

Clara wiggled to the floor to reach under the table, and a white cat sprang out and raced across the hardwood floor to escape her clutches. 

Jerusalem! Come back here!

Is Alexander here? Helen asked, able to taste something bitter on her tongue. She assumed her husband had insisted Bramhurst give her the foul tonic to soothe her nerves. How much time had she lost? Had she drunk tea? Had she seen ghosts and had a doctor comfort her, or was it all a dream?

No, but he kissed me goodbye, Clara said with a sniff. Alexander left with his regiment a few minutes ago. He told us not to come to the train station tomorrow to see him off. I do want to go to the station. Maybe we can go, Helen? She held up the edge of her dirty dress. I climbed a tree and tore a hole in the silk.

Did you see a doctor come out of the house? A man in gray, with a mustache?

I have no idea who you mean. All men with whiskers look the same.

Then it dawned on Helen what had happened. Strange things commenced the moment O’Bannon broke the picture frame. Her alarm grew when she spotted the photograph on the table, with frame and glass undamaged. The photo no longer contained a ghostly specter, if it ever had, and she felt convinced it was but a dream. She watched Clara crawl across the floor to coax the Persian cat from under a chair.

Shall I see you up to your rooms? Bramhurst asked. He appeared in the entrance, stoic as ever, and gazed at her without any hint of emotion.

Helen shook her head. Did Alexander leave on Pluto?

Yes, madam. Hercules has a bruised knee. Lord Fulbright’s jump over the wall yesterday left the horse lame. His Lordship was quite upset at the news. All the officers and guests have left the estate. I am instructed to see that you rest.

Did you give me tonic in my tea, Bramhurst? I won’t drink it again.

No, madam, I did not. Perhaps Cook brought you tea, he said. Will there be anything else?

Yes, Helen replied. In the morning, we’re going to see my husband off.

The butler bowed his head and departed.

I don’t care what Alexander told you, Clara. Seeing your sunny face will brighten his day. Ask Mrs. Jennings to pick you some posies. Helen did not dare present white roses to Alexander, for it seemed like a wish he might die in battle.

Goodie, Clara said, supremely satisfied with herself. She held the cat in her arms. May Jerusalem and I sleep with you tonight? A ghost lives under my bed.

I very much doubt that, but yes, you may, Helen said, for in truth, after her day, she did not mind the company. She glanced at the door, afraid Bramhurst had heard, but he was gone. Pocketing the vial of tonic, she took Clara by the hand and led her upstairs to her room.

In the morning, Helen sat outside the train station in the same carriage with Bramhurst, Mrs. Hudson, Maeve, and Clara. Her little sister brought a bunch of purple posies for Alexander. Helen doubted they saw him among thousands of soldiers that entered the station in the dismal rain. Some soldiers kissed their sweethearts, and others bid farewell to their parents. A boy no older than Clara, with the strap of his drum about his neck, ran after an Army officer in red. The familiar blue coats of the 11th Hussars appeared in a long line of men with black sable fur hats. Clara, in excitement, opened the door and shouted at a young Hussar.

Lieutenant!

The young officer glanced at the carriage. He approached, and with an inquisitive look at Helen, offered a smile to her and the little girl.

Not many of your size recognize military insignia. How may I be of assistance? he asked.

It’s your pants, Clara said. "You’re what they call Cherry Pickers. I think the 11th Hussars are the finest regiment in the British Army. The man offered a quick salute and laughed as raindrops slid down his cheeks. When you see Colonel Lord Alexander Fulbright, please tell him these flowers are from his family and to come home soon."

With pleasure, the officer said and took the flowers. It was thoughtful of your mother to bring you here. I’ll see he gets these right away. Goodbye, miss.

Oh, she’s not my mother! She’s my sister, Lord Fulbright’s wife!

In that case, I’ll say they’re from both of you.

The butler closed the door, but out the window, Helen watched the young officer push his way to the front of the line. On the platform stood Alexander, taller than the rest, with his handsome face visible beneath the brim of his fur hat. O’Bannon and Kerry stood on either side. As the lieutenant spoke to him, Alexander lifted the flowers and waved toward the carriage. His dark eyes spotted Helen, and she trembled, for even at a distance, she witnessed his smile turn into a sneer. He crushed the blooms in his hand, tossed them aside, and entered the station with his regiment.

Did Alexander get the flowers? Can you see him? Clara asked.

I’m sorry, dear. There are too many soldiers to see Alexander, Helen replied.

Her heart broke