Chapter One
Christmas 1860
Berry Pomeroy Village, Devon
Asudden mist,damp on Harry Johnson’s face, swirled around him as he walked through the park from the train station at Totnes. On his way to spend Christmas with his parents, Harry had passed up the offer of a lift, preferring to stretch his legs and stride out, after hours spent in the train. But now, with the mist deepening, he began to regret it.
He’d not gone far when a woman dressed all in white emerged from the bushes some yards ahead of him. Threads of gossamer mist swirled around her. Startled, Harry dragged in a breath. Slender and graceful, at first when she turned toward him, he thought her beautiful, but a sharp breeze sprang up from nowhere and stirred her veil. He saw her face more clearly. Beneath the short veil she seemed ageless, neither young nor old. Her eyes darkly shadowed, her expression seemed lost, unfocused. Harry shivered and suffered the weirdest sensation, as if icy fingers danced along his spine. She appeared to look right through him. He stopped for some obscure reason, hesitant to approach her.
Neither did she come to him but held out her arms as if in entreaty. “Help me.”
Startled, he said, “Of course, madam. If I can?”
He slowly crossed the space between them.
“Oh, I do hope so.” Her voice fluttered breathily, the veil down over her face stirred slightly as if by the breeze, like a spider’s web sprinkled with dew. Odd, for there wasn’t a breath of breeze, not even enough to stir the leaves, and the clammy mist had rolled in again. How unearthly she seemed. Unnerved, Harry’s pulse raced. He chastised himself. Accountants were not given to flights of fancy. There was always a logical explanation for everything.
“I have waited so long…” her voice faded on a sigh.
Harry took himself to task. The woman obviously needed his help. But as he moved nearer, she seemed to effortlessly retreat. “Are you in trouble?” Harry couldn’t ignore such a plea, but hoped it might be dealt with swiftly. He didn’t want to be late for Christmas dinner. It would upset his mother, who always went to a great deal of trouble, and his father, a stickler for punctuality. “May I escort you home? Do you live near here?”
“Up there.” She turned to gesture toward the rocky hill where only the rambling ruins of a once mighty fortress perched above a wooded ravine.
“Surely you’re mistaken.” That couldn’t be right. He could just make out the ruins of the fifteenth century St. Margaret’s Tower and the bare stone walls of the gatehouse rising above the mist. No one lived there except the jackdaws. Only visitors came to view it now. He doubted it had been inhabited for hundreds of years, except perhaps by a guard employed by the Duke of Somerset.
“Are you lost? You are welcome to come home with me. I can drive you in my father’s carriage.”
She clasped pale hands together against her breast. “Oh, no. I mustn’t.”
“It’s not far.” He turned to point down the street where the chimneys of his parent’s house belched smoke. “You can warm yourself by the fire and have a sherry. After which, I will take you home.”
Harry turned back to her.
She had vanished.
“Where…?” Harry searched up and down the path but found no sign of her. Had she retreated into the trees? He hadn’t heard so much as a rustle.
“How very odd.” Disturbed by the encounter, he rested his cane on his shoulder and strode on. Deep in thought, he almost walked past the front gate of his parent’s white-washed, thatched-roofed cottage.
“Here you are at last, Harry.” His mother kissed his cheek at the door. “Your coat feels damp, wasn’t Jeffrey Mullins at the station with his gig?”
“Yes, but I preferred to walk and enjoy the country air, Mother. One gets little chance of a good hike when living in the city.” Harry divested himself of his coat and hat.
“Well, it is a lovely, clear night. Come into the parlor. We have dinner guests.”
“Clear?” Harry turned around and saw that indeed the mist had gone. His eyebrows shot up. “The mist certainly cleared rapidly.”
She chuckled. “How you like to tease me, you foolish boy. Come and meet our guests, Mrs. Dunstable and her daughter, Cecily.”
Harry entered the cozy parlor dressed in its Christmas greenery. Tinsel and bright baubles decorated the Christmas tree. It seemed a world apart from the encounter he had just experienced. Warm and comfortable. An older lady in black bombazine sat on the sofa beside a pretty young woman dressed in a white gown, a colorful paisley shawl arranged around her arms. For a moment, Harry thought it might be the woman he met in the park, but no, this girl’s skin glowed with robust health. She seemed so alive. It made him wonder again about the lady in the white veil. Was she ill? Should he have searched for her? He felt strangely guilty, as if he’d let her down somehow.
“Mr. Dunstable passed away earlier this year,” his mother explained. “Eventide can be a lonely time with the absence of loved ones. Mrs. Dunstable, I’m so pleased you and your daughter have joined us.”
“And you are very kind to have invited us, Mrs. Johnson.” Mrs. Dunstable smiled sadly. “Poor Cecily has had a dreary time of late, with just the two of us.”
Cecily’s blue eyes met Harry’s, and she nodded, stirring her glossy brown ringlets.
“How do you do?” He shook Mrs. Dunstable’s hand, then clasped Cecily’s in one of his own. “Miss Dunstable.” She really was the most attractive girl. Something about her drew him beyond what nature had endowed her. The sparkle of mischief or humor in her big eyes, as if she wanted to share an amusing secret.
