Page 35
Ned greeted the guests, inviting them to stay for stargazing after the game. “It’s a rare fine night, and Luxborough House has a patch of roof just made for catching a glimpse of the Geminid meteor showers.”
John Jowers drew Octavia’s glance when he added, “It’s the best time of year for them. We could see as many as a hundred.”
Anne turned the conversation from the stars back to the game by reminding them that the phantom had been quite busy. She gave an account of finding a plate of dates next to her workbasket, while Ned told of finding a sack of roasted chestnuts, still warm, when he returned from his morning ride. The others had received gifts as well.
“Wait,” Octavia exclaimed, looking at John Jowers. “What sort of paltry ghost is this? In the country, you know, ghosts give horrid yells. They rap at the doors, move the furniture about, and make noises like spinning wheels or butter churns. And you tell me your ghost leaves presents for everyone?”
“Yes,” said Pris. “Always on the second day.”
“The phantom left me a handful of pennies,” added Jasper.
“Remember,” said Camille, “our ghost hopes to be admitted to the feast as a guest. Here’s your gift, Octavia.” Camille handed Octavia a small red velvet bag pulled closed at the top with a golden tie.
Octavia opened the little bag and poured ten peppermints into her palm. “Well,” she said, “I don’t see how these gifts tell you anything about your ghost.”
For a few more minutes the details of the ghost’s gifts went flying back and forth, as the group tried to find some common thread among them. Harriet glanced at Wynford. He seemed to absorb it all effortlessly, and he caused her some confusion as he came for his cup of tea and under the table pressed one foot lightly on her toes. He begged pardon as if it had been an accident, but Harriet had to glance down to hide a smile. He was far too quick to understand her phantom, and she should not play games with him that she could only lose.
His brow remained furrowed, however, whenever he gazed at Octavia. It was clear that she, not the Frenchwoman, was the source of his preoccupation. Harriet resolved to ask him again what troubled him. She had agreed to do him a favor, to look out for his sister; that was her role in his life. And she thought she was doing it well. The silly old game among the unpretentious Luxboroughs was a great antidote against the infection of the marchioness’s sophistication and Octavia’s hopes for the Hardwicke ball and the unknown Captain Fanshaw.
A pointed look from Ned made Harriet realize she was neglecting her duties in her preoccupation with Wynford. She lowered her gaze to the tea table, her face heated, striving to turn her unruly thoughts back to the game. To be caught staring at a man was an inexcusable lapse in propriety.
Ned covered for her, saying, “I don’t know what the ghost is up to with the gifts, but it’s no use, Harry, you’ve gone easy on us this year. The phantom must be carrying a teacup and dying of thirst. One thing everyone knows about this house is that you can always get a decent cup of tea.”
She looked at the grinning faces around her and worked to keep her countenance. She was slipping, distracted by Wynford and his...gaudy plumage. “Do you wish to identify the phantom, Ned?” she asked.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Jasper, “because he doesn’t know what the phantom’s lost. Anything could make him clumsy.”
“But only a lost head would make us uneasy,” said Pris.
“But the phantom can’t have lost a head,” said Octavia, “for then the teacup would be useless.”
A brief argument ensued, until Harriet raised a hand for silence. “Are you ready to hear the phantom speak?”
They quieted, and she moved to the sofa, withdrawing the day’s written clue from her pocket.
“Listen as the phantom speaks. Though I’ve my nose in the air, I often look down rather than up. When I tired of the Christmas fog and frost of London’s Thames, I sailed for sunny climes. Feluccas brought me down another river running past the palaces of mighty kings and queens long dead, but unseen in the water’s depths lurked a dreadful danger. Address me properly, and I regain in form what I have lost in substance.”
The evening’s hushed consultations and card trading followed until Harriet challenged anyone to hazard a guess. Looks were exchanged, but no one yet felt sure enough.
When the moment passed, Ned stood and cried, “To the roof.”
While the girls put the room to rights, the young men brought up cloaks and gloves and hats and scarves. With everyone bundling up, and Cat dancing excitedly among them, Harriet sought Wynford.
“You’re worried about Octavia.”
He looked chagrined. “Am I so obvious? She does not confide in me.”
“As she formerly did?” Harriet guessed. “Do you think she now has something to confide?”
He looked grim. “I will not burden you.”
“Haven’t I agreed to guide her?”
“To a husband,” he said.
“Come on, Harry,” cried Jasper. “We’re ready to go.”
They followed Ned up to the roof, and as they passed out into the frosty night, Harriet held the door, cautioning them to mind the icy slates and to stay away from the lip of the roof. Wynford came last. He took charge of the door, shutting it firmly on the dog, and taking hold of Harriet’s hand, pulled her onto the roof. The sensation of being borne forward by his strength flooded her with warmth.
