Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (1)

 

Amanda did not believe in ghosts. It was with an extreme annoyance, therefore, that she stood in the damp, cold night, clad in little more than her shift, holding a lantern in the middle of a cemetery. “Geoffrey. There is nothing here. You saw nothing from your window. And ‘nothing’ is what I think of this entire endeavour.”

But Geoffrey was too far gone to hear her.

Amanda grimaced, stepping carefully around a grave marker. Yes, her brother was far gone in many ways. (She’d remember to work that into their next conversation.)

“Geoffrey?” Nothing.

Hmph.

The stillness outside felt oppressive, shrinking the world to her limited senses. There was a decided bite to the air, yet it still held the heavy, wet scent of dirt. Rain which had pounded upon her windowpane hard enough to wake her (though Geoffrey’s incessant knocking accomplished the feat) had ceased in the quarter hour or so preceding their venture into the darkness. In its place grew a thick mist, rising from the earth, snaking among the headstones to creep and twist around her ankles.

She shivered despite her resolve, pulling the lantern and its heat a little closer to her body. Her arm ached from the heavy drag of the ancient lamp. Its old glass panes were dull and cracked, casting more warmth than illumination. What rays did escape played upon the mist and shadows, deceiving her perception and memory. She knew there should be a tree right… there? No. There? Flickers of shapes teased her.

“Geoffrey?” Her call fell flat this time, dampened and muffled by the growing fog.

Little brother, I swear, if you’ve returned home and abandoned me in this place…

No. He might be a bit distracted at the moment but her brother would never desert her.

In a graveyard.

At midnight.

Searching for ghosts.

Would he?

She couldn’t help the unease creeping down her neck. Cemeteries could be dangerous places. During the day, thieves infested them. By the wavering glow of the moon filtered thickly by clouds? Oh, she’d much rather be snuggled up in bed!

Bed, where it was warm and safe.

When she’d grabbed the grogram coat and stepped into the night, Amanda had felt practical. The practical, long-suffering sister off, once more, to curtail her foolish brother’s antics.

A beckoning ghost? Truly. Supposing such a thing existed, how exactly did he plan to: catch it? track it without a light? converse with it? remain in this weather without a coat? Or shoes! He’d catch his death, not a specter! And if he did catch his wisp, by some miracle of miracles, what did he plan to do with such a creature?

With a solid (however dim) lamp firmly in her grasp and warm (somewhat) slippers about her feet, Amanda had been practical, no matter how disapproving… or annoyed.

But out in these stygian shadows, with the hush of silence enveloping her, a hint of damp seeping from the grass through her slippers to squish around her toes, disturbing thoughts nibbled at her practicality.

Supposing ghosts did exist…

Her skin prickled. An icy breeze whipped about her hem and blew shivers up her spine, raising the tiny golden hairs on the back of her neck.

After all, she was surrounded by the sleeping dead. How would they feel about someone who disturbed their rest? Who called rudely into the pallid dank? Who waved lanterns into their gloom?

What utter nonsense! Amanda Mildred!

Ghosts simply did not exist! For Heaven’s sake! She was more likely to be accosted by some cutpurse than a… Well… that thought was hardly reassuring. She almost preferred the idea of ghosts.

And for what did she need reassurance, exactly?

She took a determined step forward. Her slipper hit a patch of newly-turned, wet earth and she skid in the mud. She barely regained her footing, teetering for a heartbeat as her arms windmilled for balance. She’d almost slid indignantly on her backside! Amanda’s hand clenched even tighter around the lamp. She didn’t need reassurance. She needed to find Geoffrey and pull him by his ear back to the safety of bed! That’s what she needed.

Snap!

Something sharp rent the silence behind her.

Amanda gasped. She slapped a hand to her mouth to stifle any whimper from her lips.

What was that?!

Geoffrey?

Ears ringing with clarity, no other sound came to them. One breath. Two. Silence. Slowly, she peered over her shoulder, into the whirling, thick fog.

Nothing. Tendrils of mist swooped and swirled into the path she’d just traced amongst the tombstones. Most were thin slabs, tall with a simple inscription beneath the rounded crest. A rare few formed mammoth obelisks. Small, simple squares peppered the ground. Blurry beams from her lantern penetrated the haze to illuminate the nearest carved marker.

 

Under this stone,
Here lies only bone.
He once was like thee,
Soon, like he ye shall be.

 

A cold, clammy film dampened her palms. Oh, Geoffrey. Where are you?!

Snap! Crack!

Her breath came in erratic bursts. The lamp shook, casting moving shadows about the headstones. She squeezed her eyes closed.

Scratch!

Geoffrey? Oh, what if it wasn’t him? She desperately hoped her brother was making the noises as some kind of foolish prank (though that wasn’t like him at all). Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Should she call out to him?

Or was it someone else? A grave robber? Or something worse, like body snatchers. Resurrectionists. Sensational reports confirmed that men who committed such atrocities thought nothing of covering their crimes with murder—a victim was simply another body to sell! If she spoke, she’d surely alert him to her presence. What to do? Her heart beat frantically in her throat, pulse throbbing against her delicate skin like a madman beating on a door.

What if it was a bandit?

What if it were a ghost?

…

What if I’ve lost my mind entirely! Amanda Mildred Pruett, get a hold of yourself!

She was being completely irrational. If it were, in fact, a being—living, dead, or puppy!—he, she, or it most definitely knew exactly where she was. She was holding a lantern in the darkness! A beacon, no matter how grimy. Not to mention her squeaks and squawks at innocent noises nor her bellows to her brother. Loud bellows.

If anyone wanted to do anything to her, it would have been done already! Ghostie or otherwise!

She nodded, indecision and doubt reassured by logic. She lowered the lamp, turned.

And screamed.

Her screech echoed sharply in the yard, piercing her own ears.

A man. A shovel. Dirt.

An open grave.

Headstones.

The moon. The mist.

A wolf howled.

All of these things blurred together into a single, vibrant image: a grave robber!

Before she could react, the man’s arm raised—the arm holding the shovel! To bash in what little of her brains she had!

She took a step back, ready to run… but… but…

“I promise, it is not as it appears…”

But Amanda heard only the first three words, for she had done something she had never done in her entire, practical life.

She’d fainted.

 

“A wolf? In England? Moreover London? Howling? At the moon?”

Across the breakfast table, Amanda slanted eyes at her brother. “I clearly hear the sardonic stress to each word, Geoffrey, there is no need to so emphatically drive your point across.”

Amanda emphasized her point with a snip of the sugar nips. Whoever hacked the stuff in the kitchen always sent up too-large chunks. Her tea should be sweet, not saturated. Especially with the throbbing headache that accompanied knocking one’s noggin upon a tombstone.

“Can Cook not grind this down into a powder? Or a smaller shape, like a ball or a cube?”

“Amanda, stop talking nonsense. Howling wolves and cubed sugar. What next?” Geoffrey’s tone changed and, for a twelve-year-old boy, he sounded remarkably concerned. “Are you certain you are quite well?” His head fell and he mumbled into his chest. “There was such a lot of blood…”

She immediately dropped the nips and the sugar to the serving dish with a clatter. Her hand covered her brother’s and she squeezed. “I am perfectly well. It will take a great deal more than a lump on the head to turn me into a ninny. More of one, anyway.” She winked at him. “Besides, do you remember when the branch hit your head while you were riding? Gallivant took off like an arrow into the thicket and you came out with hardly a scratch at all, yet you bled like a river. Remember?”

The troubled clouds marring Geoffrey’s grey-blue eyes began to clear.

She patted his hand and returned to her application of sugar to tea. “It was fortunate that you heard my cry and were able to lug me back to the house. I don’t know how you managed…”

At those words, Geoffrey’s clouds returned with tempest force. Only the rich brown curls on the top of his crown were visible, his head hung low as he appeared to be studiously observing the remarkable design of the new dinner plates. (They were a serviceable, plain white, though their mother pretended they had a small periwinkle border.)

“Geoffrey?” Amanda’s heart beat a little faster, a flash of a memory quickly fading, but she forced her voice to remain calm. “You said you heard my cry and found me. That I had slipped and hit my head. Geoffrey, that is what happened, is it not?”

Her brother’s chocolate curls shook from side to side.

“No?” His head shook lower. Amanda clenched her teeth. Worried she might bend the spoon in her hand, she set it down carefully and spoke slowly. “Then, pray tell, deliver unto me the events of last evening. Exactly as they transpired. Step. By. Step.”

He muttered something into his waistcoat.

“This instant!”

She could see his resolve grow as he straightened his shoulders, lifted his neck, and met her eyes directly. “Last night did not occur as I had intimated.” He gulped.

Amanda barely held onto her patience. “You said you’d carried me home.”

“Implied.” He saw the look in her eye and sputtered, “I helped carry you home. Oh, before you say anything, Amanda, just hear me out and let me begin from the beginning! I was certain that I had seen something in the cemetery—I showed you, and if it hadn’t been for that mist from the rain, you’d have seen it, too!—and I thought I knew about where it had been. I knew you’d followed me, but I was so intent not to lose track! But you were being so blood—awfully noisy that I wanted to get a bit ahead of you so as not to startle it… Oh, Amanda, I know that it was very wrong of me. But it was there. The ghost, I’m sure of it!”

She should never ever have let him read anything entitled Fantasmagoriana—to improve his French or not! And most certainly not the poetry he’d been scouring lately. A little more Cicero. Less Byron.

“So I went further, yet I could still hear you calling. At that point I knew the specter had fled. I’d already turned around to find you when I heard you scream.”

A compelling desperation filled his blue-grey eyes.

“You’ll never know, Amanda, the horror that gripped me!” A glance at his pale features and trembling lips gave her small insight. “I ran as fast as I could towards the sound. I reached the bend by the tree… and that’s when I saw you—” He broke off, gulped. She nodded encouragement. “—in his arms…”

Her heart thudded in her chest as if dropped from a high cliff. Vague memories from the night before flashed through her head—a touch, a smell.

She’d thought them dreams.

“I came from behind the tree in such a rush, the first thought in my brain was that he intended to make off with you—so I charged him!” A twelve-year-old boy attack a grown man? She was torn between shock and pride. “Oh, he gave me such a set-to!” Geoffrey deepened his voice (rather ineffectually as it crackled). “Said he: ‘Boy! What in the Devil’s name—’ I’m sorry, Amanda, but those were his words— ‘What in the Devil’s name do you think you’re about? Did you leave this girl unaccompanied? Who did I hear her summoning…? Geoffrey, was it? Now I can give name to what manner of uncouth clod I’ve stumbled upon. I should wring your neck! But first lead me to her home—I assume you know the direction? Good. The girl’s been injured.’ Despite the blood, he assured me it was not serious, bade me press his handkerchief against your head, and gave instruction to ensure that you eat, refuse any and all medical treatment, and not sleep past eight o’clock.”

“And you agreed to this?”

He nodded. “The man’s advice was quite sound. I’d never call a doctor for you, Amanda.”

She was uncertain how to interpret that. However, recalling the last time she’d had a fever and the immense weakness she felt after being bled, Amanda believed her brother’s statement one of love and kindness rather than neglect.

“And this is all that occurred?”

“Yes. Hmm. Well, he left his handkerchief which I’d offered to launder, but he seemed a bit revolted, said it wasn’t worth the bother and oh! I almost forgot that he’d told me specifically to mention,” Geoffrey scowled at the ceiling as if the words were writ upon the scalloping, “that all ‘was not as it appeared,’ he had a ‘perfectly reasonable explanation,’ and ‘why in blazes is she allowed out of the house if she makes habit of traipsing about in cemeteries.’”

“Allowed out?”

“I told him you wouldn’t like that.”

“And he said?”

“He didn’t rightly care what you liked, considering the trouble you’d caused.”

“The trouble I’d caused…”

“I told him you wouldn’t like that, either…”

Hmph. Amanda sat back in her chair, shoulders slumping in the most unladylike manner. She had caused him trouble? She would never have hit her head if he hadn’t scared her half to death. What had he been doing anyway? What could be a reasonable explanation for clandestine grave digging? Besides scaring young maidens, that is. It was, essentially, entirely his fault for any trouble he suffered in carrying her home.

Her fingers re-clenched the spoon. Rude. Insufferable. And this strange man had carried her home in his arms.

While she’d been practically naked!

Naked!

Yes, yes, she’d had on a thick coat.

Over her shift.

No stays, no drawers, no petticoat, no gown, no stockings.

Just slippers.

Practically naked. And she’d been lugged through the graveyard in a semi-conscious state by…

Hazy memories filtered back to her through the daze of her headache. Strong arms had lifted her limp, listless body against a wall of muscle. She’d felt strangely comforted. Safe. Like a kitten curled upon a firm pillow sitting in the sun. Instead of rays, her body had been toasted by the heat emanating from his solid chest. She’d snuggled into it, nuzzling against the man’s neck. He hadn’t smelled like damp earth. He smelled like rain and sweat, nearly masked by a delicious cologne that tickled her nose… cinnamon and something woodsy, spicy. Warmth filled her despite the cold. And… And then… her heart pulsed at the memory.

And then her memory faded.

Oh, seize it all!

What if… what if it was someone she knew?!

If she had been in the arms of a man she knew… who had held her so closely and smelled so deliciously and…

And…

The skin on Amanda’s cheeks enflamed like a hair held above a candle. She cleared her throat. “What was the name of this benevolent rogue?”

“I… I did not get his name.” At her incredulous sputter, Geoffrey quickly fished into his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of white linen. “I was too overset at the time! Perhaps it is embroidered upon his handkerchief? I did have it laundered in case he returned… At least most of your blood is out.” Geoffrey shoved the fabric to her.

Square. Simple. Plain. Oddly, no lace or edging. Not even a bloodstain, it was clean and freshly pressed. Though it was embroidered.

“There is naught but initials.” In crisp, even, scarlet stitches. “Look. Is that a D or an A? How could there be two such distinct letters which cannot be distinguished?”

 

He peered over her shoulder, laughing nervously. “How many As could there be in the ton?”

“Geoffrey…” she sighed. “Is it a title or a surname? Is it even his? Did you get any information about this man at all? Or are you allowing perfect strangers to abscond with your sister in the dead of night? Oh, why do I ask, when you went off in the dead of night to capture dead in the night?”

“That was not at all humorous.”

“I have been hit upon the head with a tombstone. My wits are not all about me.”

On cue, her head began to throb again and she sighed, gripping the handkerchief in her fist as if she could squeeze from it its secrets. She sipped her tea. Sweet, bordering on saturated, but the calming effect of the leaves quickly took hold. She rested the plain china against her forehead, letting the heat work its own wonders.

A. Or D? Amanda’s mind ran through Debrett’s pages seeking her mysterious Mr. A. If, indeed it was a Mr. A and not Sir A, Lord A, or, Heaven forbid, His Grace the Duke of A. If, as she said, it was even his. Though, she thought, massaging the material between forefinger and thumb, there was quite a bit the small piece of fabric could tell her. It was fine linen, somewhat expensive, but not flashy or extravagant. There was not a trace of femininity about it, so it most certainly belonged to a gentleman of some stature with a sense of modesty and economy.

Who smelled delicious even while covered in earth.

And could lift an ox.

Not that Amanda was comparing herself to a bovine, but the man’s arms were like steel. Supple, warm steel.

Geoffrey was being conspicuously silent, likely in hopes to avoid her ire and regain her good graces. Amanda kept her eyes closed and rolled the hot teacup to the other side of her brow. “You do know that you are in a massive amount of trouble, correct?”

“Indubitably.”

“And that, once I decide just what should be done, I will heap punishment upon you.”

“I shall reap what I’ve sown.”

“Also that you’re a rapscallion urchin.”

“To my toes.”

“And a very brave lad.” She ruffled his hair to ease his embarrassment at her compliment. Though he was the cause of her current troubles, he still had come after her, nearly fought her presumed attacker, staunched her blood, held her hand through the night, and confessed his sins.

Of course, it was equally possible that he might have led them both into a midnight resurrectionist den, a gang of cutpurses, or a spectral picnic. But the tea and blessed heat upon her brow was doing much to restore Amanda’s good humor (to Geoffrey’s fortune).

Then, the maid stumbled in.

She looked pale as a sheet. Even the freckles on her nose had vanished.

“Miss…?”

“What is it, Shelby?”

“Miss…” She wrung her hands while her soft green eyes darted towards Geoffrey.

Amanda stood, wincing. The pounding in her head increased with movement and her stiff, aching body protested. In the future, she would make every attempt to avoid smacking her head against solid rock.

She waved the handkerchief at her brother. “Geoffrey, would you put this upon my dresser, please? And, so you can help with the initials, why don’t you bring up the Debrett’s from the library as well?”

“No!” Shelby’s mossy eyes widened and, if it were at all possible, the girl’s complexion paled even further, stark against her auburn locks. Her panicked tone gained both sibling’s immediate attention. Caught, she pasted on a hasty, unconvincing smile. “Master Geoffrey, they’re… erm… Maria’s mopping the library at the moment. I’ll send up the book when the floor’s nice and dry, I will, truly. Why don’t you run along upstairs, now?”

Amanda’s groan had nothing to do with her head. Could the woman be more obvious? She’d attempted to rid Geoffrey from their presence in just such a way as to rouse any twelve-year-old’s curiosity, not accounting for a boy who had spent the previous evening ghost-hunting in a graveyard. Already, she could see his blue eyes gleaming with the stuff that killed the cat.

The only way to distract him now would be to prey on his guilt. (Which she was not above doing.)

Amanda placed her fingers aside her temple. “Oh, and Geoffrey, while you’re upstairs, I’m not feeling quite the thing. I have a tincture in my embroidery satchel for megrims—fetch it for me, would you? Since we are to have no doctors in this house, I suppose a tisane must make do…”

“Of course!” he said. One glance at her creased brow and he spun on his heel towards the door.

“Geoffrey,” Amanda held out the handkerchief he’d forgotten. “I will await you in the drawing room.” Which was in the opposite direction of the library.

Both women’s eyes were on his back as he scampered down the hall and up the stairs. As soon as he was out of earshot, Amanda rounded on Shelby.

“Now, wha—”

“Oh, Miss Amanda, do hurry! I didn’t know what to say with the young master present. For it… it’s in the library, miss!”

“Wha—” but Shelby audaciously grabbed onto Amanda’s hand and practically pulled her out of the breakfast room.

The maid had keys ready when they arrived at the library’s French entry. With an efficient snick of the wrist, she unlocked the doors, ushered Amanda into the room, and snapped the lock in place behind them.

If the room had been fully-furnished, it might have taken Amanda longer to gasp. If there had been a couch to obstruct the view, or a saddle-cheeked chair, or an ornate podium, or standing bookshelf, or… or… anything to draw her vision, her eyes would not have even seen the rug in front of the fireplace.

Nor what was atop it.

“Why…” her voice came out as a whispered squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Why, pray tell, is there a body in the library?”