Lonely is the Ghost

[BadForm]

Lonely is the Ghost (Closed)

This thread is now closed to Maid of Marvels and I.

The Lakeside Manor was a sprawling estate on the shores of Lake Windemere. It was luxuriant, picturesque, the idyllic retreat for any wealthy artist. That was what had attracted me to it. The manor had also been empty for nearly 200 years. Ever since my Emily had left me and I had died there of a broken heart. I am the late Sir Francis Chichester, last in the line of Chichesters that go back to men who served as the King's most trusted knights. Yet rich and powerful as I was, my Emily left me for a pig farmer all those years ago.

200 years.

The manor had been sold by my family, and the next owners had found that the house was cold, chilly even. It is hard on the living, having a despondent ghost in the house... especially for those unable to understand the dead. That family had moved out but failed to sell the Manor.

It had passed down through the generations, unoccupied. Hoping one day to sell it, the family had continued to employ people to keep it in good condition, but I had long since accepted that I would spend eternity alone with nothing to do but pine for my beloved Emily.

That was, until the owners decided to sell the property for a paltry 60,000 pounds... and she bought it.

OOC: Looking for a sexual-romantic roleplay between the new owner and Sir Francis. Owner should have capability to see ghosts for some reason and in some manner - whether all the time, only in trance, only in mirror or whatever, and I will give Sir F some poltergeist type ability (ie touch). Who she is, if theres any relationship to Emily, whatever... entirely up to whoever wants to join.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary Payton

Hillary walked through the empty house, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. It would take some fixing up, but the previous owners had been eager to sell and she had been even more eager to buy. There was something about this house that had drawn her. Just another side trip on her journey through life, she thought, but it seemed the perfect place for her to sojourn.

Standing at the foot of the staircase, Hillary looked up. The movers would be here this afternoon with the few things she possessed and she'd hired a housekeeper who should be arriving within the hour. In the meantime, she had time for another look around upstairs.

She had already chosen the room she'd take as her own. Martha would have one of the rooms on the first floor that had been originally used by the servants. Not for the first time, Hillary wondered what the manor must have been like in its heyday and why it had stood empty for so very long.

Her hand glided along the smooth mahogany of the bannister as she climbed, passing the first landing and continuing up to the third floor. She wanted to go into the attic to see if there were any treasures there. It was the only room she had not been in on her previous visit to Lakeside Manor.

At first glance, it wasn't much different than any other attic she'd been in or seen. Layers of dust settled on sheet-covered shapes that defied definition. Furniture, she guessed. Hillary tugged at one which tore as she pulled, stirring up a whirlwind that set her sneezing and chuckling. Well, what did she expect? This stuff looked like it had been sitting for centuries. Maybe it had.

Well, if she was going to take a better look around, she needed to change into something more comfortable and less likely to be ruined. Tee shirt and jeans were in order here. But first... She had uncovered a trunk.

Unable to resist the urge to see what it held, Hillary knelt beside it and gently lifted the lid. A gentle whiff of lavender intermingled with age rose from within. Dresses, hats, gloves... the lace yellowed with senescence and the material stiff to the touch. Searching deeply among the contents, her fingertips touched something hard. A book?

Pulling it up from the bottom, she saw that it was indeed a book, fastened with a faded pink ribbon. Holding her breath, Hillary untied it slowly, letting the ribbon drop to the floor as the book fell open. A thrill of excitement passed through her when she read the inscription, the ink faded with time on the xanthous pages.

*~MY DIARY~*
Emily Chichester
January 1801

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

She was so, so beautiful. I watched her as she picked her way through the Manor. Beautiful. There was no other word for her. It was not so much the way she looked, although that was sufficient to make my soul's pulse beat a forte. It was the way she walked. She held herself with a poise I had not seen since Emily's youth.

She walked into the attic rooms, where the most expensive of the my furniture and the most exquisite of the art I collected lay covered in ragged, shaming cloth. I watched as she stepped around the floor, pacing across toward an armoire and ripped the sheet from it. She sneezed a cat's sneeze that made me smile.

Then she moved on. Her exploratory movement took her to the one piece I wished none to see, the chest my Emily once owned. In it lay my Emily's things and when this woman raised her hands once more she clasped my Emily's diary. Her eyes drifted over the pages, and I knew I had to halt their dance.

The piano forte lay in the second of my five attic rooms, adjoining this one through the open door. I flew quickly across to it, ignoring the doorway in favor of the much closer wall. That was one of the few pleasures of my mortal death, I could now touch only that I chose to and ignore the rest of the world as though it were a figment of an artist's wild musing.

My hands quickstepped over the keys of the piano, beating out the melody of Mozart's "Eine Kleini Nachtmusik". It was the first thing that came to my mind, the music I had used to woo my Emily. And it sounded strange on this piano whose strings had been left to sag for two centuries.

It sufficed. Shortly I heard the woman stand and move to leave the room, investigating the melodic intrusion. I fled the piano and hid, unsure if this woman was psychic or not and unwilling to risk being seen by someone so who could be so callous as to invade the testament of another.


OOC: Great post, Maid... just one question - are you wanting a third into this for your housekeeper?

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary hadn't noticed that there was more than one room to the attic, but the unmistakable sound of a piano playing in the next -- flat notes and all -- lured her attention. Setting the diary down, she gently closed the lid of the trunk and followed the sound.

Opening the door, her eyes perused the obviously empty room. The piano forte was the only piece uncovered, impossible to miss yet clearly the source of the serenade she'd heard. The piece was exquisite, though covered in a layer of seemingly undisturbed dust. The gilt carvings were definitely Baroque, down to the cherubic faces on either of its front legs.

"Bach would have been more fitting," Hillary said aloud as she moved closer. "Fugues are far better for setting an eerie mood."

She ran her fingers across the keys and began to play Chopsticks. "Sorry, but it's the only thing I know. Aside from the radio and the CD player. So, who are you anyway?"

Hillary didn't really expect an answer to her question, having asked it aloud only to fill the silence. She did that a lot -- talked to herself when she was puzzling things out. The poser of the moment being who it was that had been playing the piano forte and why they had chosen her to entertain? No one had mentioned that Lakeside Manor was haunted. Then again, why would they? Not exactly a big selling point.

A ghost? Now there was a thought. She didn't know what she thought about ghosts really. If, in fact, this was one. She'd felt her share of what she had called 'a presence' in her lifetime, but never had one moved things -- and certainly none had ever played Mozart for her. She gave a mental shrug and chuckled.

"Hello? Miss Payton? Hello??"

The sound of a woman's voice from downstairs disrupted her musings. It had to be Martha. Good. It was still early enough in the day to get a few rooms behind them -- kitchen, bathrooms and bedrooms for a start. The pipes rattled, but the realtor had assured her that the plumbing was in perfect running order.

"Coming!" Hillary called out in answer. "Be right there!"

"And try not to frighten poor Martha, will you? It's so hard to get good help nowadays." Laughing, she left the attic and headed back downstairs.

"Ought to be interesting, huh? We'll find out who it is soon enough."

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

Did she see me? I could not believe it was possible, I had selected my hiding place well. Hidden beyond the veil of the curtained anteroom, secreted from her sight, it was unlikely that even a psychic could have born witness to my presence.

Of course, she had heard the piano forte play, and it was the only piece of furniture in the varied attics that rested uncovered. Logic, if nothing else, would have told her something was amiss. But she appeared so calm, so at peace with the strange phenomenon. That disturbed me. I was unused to people being friendly towards ghosts - in my time it would have been heresy.

The cry of the maid interrupted her reveries as soon as she began to play the piece by that upstart German, Bach. I chose to ignore her insults, her defamation of my character and selection. For now, I was intrigued by this mysterious being. I followed her down the stairs and watched from a distance as she greeted the cleaning woman. I had to know more.

OOC: Away for the weekend, but wanted to post before leaving. Really enjoying it so far, MoM... but I'm curious - what are you counting down to? Something exciting I hope.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Hello! You must be Martha Duffy," Hillary said with a grin as she extended her hand. "I am so glad you've come. You were highly recommended."

"I am, Miss." Martha smiled back, her blue eyes twinkling as she pulled off a glove to take her new employer's hand. "Now where shall I put my things so I can begin?"

"I've chosen my own room upstairs, but thought you would like one on the ground floor. There are a few that were servants' quarters at one time. Come."

Hillary kept talking over her shoulder as the portly older woman lifted a worn suitcase and followed. "There is one that I found particularly lovely -- it even has a small sitting room attached. But you can choose your own. I want you to be completely comfortable here. After all, this will be your home as much as it is mine."

"I don't require much in the way of trappings, Miss Payton" Martha replied. "Never have and never will. I'm sure it will suit."

"Have you lived in Wickham all your life then, Martha? And please -- call me Hillary."

"Yes, I have. Never wandered far. Not the adventurous type, I'm afraid. And it wouldn't be proper for me to call you by your Christian name. I know my place."

"That's my point exactly, Martha. This is your place. I may be your employer, but it will just be the two of us here for the most part and I would truly like us to be friends as well." Hillary turned and smiled broadly. "What if we agree that there will be no 'Miss' or 'Maam' unless we have company? And here we are... "

She opened the door and stepped aside to let Martha enter the rooms first. "It needs cleaning. Everything does. But it does seem to catch the sun."

"It will do. It will do just fine, Miss... erm... Hillary. Just let me hang my coat and hat and I'll get started."

"Great! I'm going to go upstairs and change into something more appropriate for cleaning myself. Meet you back down here in a few, okay? I thought we'd begin with the kitchen and bathrooms, then do our bedrooms and move on from there? It's a big job. Perhaps we should call in a cleaning crew to help?"

"Perhaps. Now let me get settled so I can begin."

Hillary chuckled. She and Martha were going to get on splendidly. She just knew it. She only hoped that she wouldn't be scared off by their piano-forte playing friend upstairs.

My countdown is the number of days until my Christmas pudding arrives for the holidays. Really looking forward to it. They wouldn't let Tibvo send it on its own, so he has to come along. I suppose I'll just have to grin and bear it. *sigh*

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

The maid astounded me. I knew how many years had passed, but for all the saints she looked precisely like Winifred, my own Emily's maid those years past. Even her hair was knotted in the same manner. The voice was different. It's accent was twisted from that of the original speakers, but then from what I had seen of the young woman, everything had changed over the centuries.

The young woman settled her maid into what had once been Winifred's old quarters and then left, announcing that she would change into something "more appropriate" for her toileteries. That made me smile with memory of my beloved Emily, who had allowed me the pleasure of sharing such pleasant ablutions with her.

I followed the young woman upstairs and wached as she entered the bedroom. It would be so easy to steal a glance, I knew, and I had been so alone for so long that my spirit wished it. Yet I was no mere peeping tom, no merry watcher out to spy a lady's garter. I was a gentleman, and such I would remain.

I waited outside the door, unseen in a darkened alcove, as she changed, and then watched her walk past to he upper bathroom.

It was then I stole into her room, and saw discarded on the bed, the clothes she wore. Expensive though they were, these were abysmal coverings: a floral dress, a scanty brazier and something strange I could only assume passed in modern trappings for pantaloons - not even a corset to support her supple frame. I thought with regret of the moudlering clothes that had once belonged to my Emily. If only I had protected them then this modern beauty would have clothing that befit her.

Well, there was one item.

No, I tried to tell myself, that was Emily's and no other's, and even she had never worn it. I was becoming infatuated with this woman and the maid had set my memory running in passionate ways, but she was not my Emily.

She was not my Emily.
My Emily.
Who had deserted me.
Who had left me to die alone.
Not my Emily.
Had she ever been?

My ghostly mouth turned at the corner as I left to return to the trunk she had not fully explored. Silently I pulled from it the diary, the jewellery, the mirror and more. None of this was damaged, and while faded with age, I had prevented them from moldering. And underneath was the gown I arranged for Emily to wear on our special day; the wedding day that had never happened.

Beautiful white silk, flowed through my ghostly arms as I lifted it. Delicate silk shimmered at the cuffs and collar. Minature pearls and shimmered in subtle places about the bodice. The skirt, flattering to any woman's thigh, billowed like a curtain in the breeze. I had protected this chest, this dress, with every breath of my soul for the centuries since I died, hoping my Emily would return. Now I knew she would not and I would give it to someone else. It would no longer be a wedding gown, but the most beautiful gift I could present to the one who brought light to the darkness.

Minutes later, I entered her bedroom for the third time, a rose from the garden held firmly in my grip. I lay this upon the bosom of the dress, which spread like a sleeping woman over her bed. Part of me knew this was wrong, that I was betraying my Emily. Part of me no longer cared.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary turned on the tap and waited. And waited some more. A distant clanging in the pipes told her that something was moving in them -- it just wasn't happening here. Just as she was beginning to give up on any chance of seeing anything even remotely resembling water, the faucet vibrated and belched, spewing a spluttering stream of brown liquid that gradually began to run clear after a few minute's time. Once she was certain that the pipes were finally at least partially clear of years of sediment, she rinsed out the tub and let it fill for her bath as she added bottled water to the mental list of things needed and to do that she'd been compiling since she'd stepped into the Manor a few hours ago.

Much as she would have liked to, Hillary didn't linger, knowing that Martha would be waiting for her. She'd added bubble bath to "the list" and scented oils as well by the time she stepped out of the enormous clawfoot tub. Wrapping a towel around herself, she padded back to her bedroom leaving wet puddle-steps in her wake.

Hillary had a clear view of her bed from the doorway as she entered her room. One glance told her that she had had a visitor of sorts. Perhaps the Mozart lover from the attic? Well, whoever it was, he or she didn't seem to be here now.

Her fingers caressed the velvet-soft petals of the rose before gently lifting it to her nose. It was a perfect bloom, and it delighted her to know that the gardens she hadn't had time to explore yet still held wondrous treasures such as this. Despite its perfection, however, it was the gown that took her breath away. It was exquisite.

Hillary looked around her room for a movement or something to suggest that she wasn't alone. Not seeing anything, she set the rose down gently on her pillow and almost reverently let her hands wander over the elegantly delicate material.

Obviously a wedding gown, the tiny seed pearls that adorned the bodice must have taken ages to attach. The silk was barely yellowed -- just enough that it had taken on an ivory sheen which she felt was probably far more luxurious than its original white. Amazingly enough, the lace wasn't even brittle.

Unable to resist, Hillary gently lifted the dress and held it up to herself. Glancing toward the mirror which obviously needed resilvering, she knew, even without actually being able to see more than a wavy shadow of an image, that it would fit her perfectly and that it was meant for her.

"It's... beautiful," she said aloud. "Thank you."

As much as she would have liked to put it on right then and there, the sound of voices disrupted her reverie once again. The movers. Laying the gown back on the bed, she let the towel slip to the floor and grabbed for a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. She'd skip the unders. Besides, no one would take notice anyhow.

"Miss Payton, it's the moving men!"

Martha. Hillary smiled when she heard the woman's voice. She hadn't known her an hour yet but she knew that they were going to become fast friends and was looking forward to it.

"Coming!" she called out as she hurriedly ran a brush through her wet curls and pulled the whole shebang up and back into a ponytail. This would do her just fine, she thought with a chuckle.

Taking another quick look into the wavy depths of the mirror, Hillary thought she saw a movement, but quickly shrugged it away as she hurried downstairs to direct the placement of her things.

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

I knew it was wrong to stay in the room as she entered, but I had to see how she would respond to her gift. She seemed enthralled, her words of thanks spoke far less than the curve of her mouth, the spark of her eye. And then the maid called her, telling her the movers had arrived, whatever they were.

Watching the woman dress was amazing. It had never taken my Emily less than an hour to prepare herself for company, yet now in the modern age it seemed one needed only be covered, not truly dressed, to be seen in public. I could see the line of her breasts beneath the cutoff shirt she wore to disguise her femininity. It excited me so much I could not stop myself from briefly reaching towards her. Her eyes cast back to the mirror, and I withdrew quickly, too uncertain to be seen as yet.

Downstairs, a number of men were bringing in strange furniture and miscellaneous boxes from the kind of carriage that seemed popular now. She set about organizing the men with all the power and dominance I had had when I was master of the Manor. That she was a woman did not seem to bother the men at all, which was, in itself, shocking. Had the modern age changed so much that now men were subject to the whims of women? I had known, in my time, a number of women who truly ran their household and, at times, those whose advice I knew had allowed their husbands to maintain their land. Yet never had I seen such as this. I did not know whether to be shocked or impressed.

I strolled the grounds, watching as the men worked. There were four of them and they were working in ones and pairs which meant that half the time the woman was in the house directing someone, and half the time outside. That was, perhaps, why she did not hear the lecherous tones of the two men currently removing lamps from the van.

"Did you see the teats on that!" I could have sworn one varlet said.

"Hell yeah, I bet she's up for it too... them single women always are!" said his friend.

Unsure of his exact meaning, I was still disgusted by his tone. "Sir! Apologise to the lady now!" I said, darting in front of one.

He walked through me and shivered, muttering that someone had just walked over his grave. I cursed my dead form for the invisibility it forced in the eyes of most mortals. Still, if there was one thing I had learned to do it was to control the physical. It took a long time, but I could move things as though my body were corporeal, and I was furious enough to do so.

I ripped the lamp from the hands of the largest and foulest of the two men, wielding it like a clumsy staff. The men stopped and screamed in terror, but I was no longer thinking. Two stricks, one with the solid base to the leg of the first, one with the lamphead to the face of the second, sent both to the ground. The first was still crying out, now holding the leg of his trousers began to darken. The other was lying still, holding a bloody cheek, terror in his wide eyes. It was only as I stood over them, panting into lungs of air, that I realized we were no longer alone.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Shouts and screams from outside brought Hillary running. The sight that met her eyes was ethereal. Two of the movers were down. One was clutching his leg the other bleeding profusely from a gash on his cheek and one of her antique brass lamps was hovering menacingly in the air over them.

"What in the world is going on here? Give me that! What in blazes do you think you're doing??" Hillary grabbed the lamp just as Martha and a couple more of the movers arrived. They looked from the downed men to Hillary and her lamp and back to the still screaming men on the ground.

"Are you crazy, lady? What the fuck did you do to my men?" The red-faced crew boss glared up at her as he knelt beside his injured mates.

Hillary felt a tug at the lamp but held tight just as Martha jumped to her defense. "Mind who you're talking to. I'm sure if Miss Payton did this, she had more than a good reason."

"The... l-l-lamp!"

"Don't you worry, Al. She's not gonna use that thing on you again. Put it down, you crazy bitch. I'm gonna sue the pants off you."

"A g-ghost!"

"Stop your nattering, Dave. She's not a ghost. Just a crazy broad is all. She must have hit you pretty hard." Turning to the two others, he shouted. "Put the rest of her stuff on the lawn. We're outa here. And you! You'll get the bill and hear from our lawyers."

"B-b-but it was a ghost!"

"Floating. It was fl... and it just hit us. For no reason!"

"Okay. Okay. Can you stand, do you think? C'mon. Let me help you up."

"You keep that loony toon away from my men until they finish unloading. You hear? You can get the rest inside yourself or burn it for all I care."

"You mind your manners when you're talking to a lady. Now get your cotton picking men off our property. And good riddance!"

Hillary watched dumbfounded as the crew boss helped his limping friend back toward the moving van. "I didn't... Martha, it wasn't... "

"There, there, Miss. I know. It was him." The elderly housekeeper nodded in the general direction beyond her employer.

"Him?"

"Yes, Miss. The Lord of the Manor himself. Naughty thing. Now let's go get you a hot cup of tea. You look a bit shaky."

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

Everything happened so quickly through the red haze of my rage and frustration. Within moments of my striking down the varlets who dared disgrace the lady's name, she was outside and struggling to take the lamp from me. She seemed quite terrified and it was that that calmed me down. I could not continue to rage when one so beautiful looked so horrified, despite the confusion that her response to my attempt to protect her dignity invoked in me.

"Please, good lady," I said. "It will be fine. These vile curs will never dare insult you again."

She did not respond.

The men did, however, making threats and casting insults once again. Briefly I tried to take the lamp back from her, but her fear made me stop. And then the maid was with her. She seemed to look directly at me as the men began to move off together in the direction of the strange carriage that held her furniture.

"I didn't... Martha, it wasn't... " said the woman.

"There, there, Miss. I know. It was him." replied the maid and this time I knew she had nodded at me.

"Winifred?" I gasped, in suprise. "Is that you?"

She did not respond to me, although briefly I saw her gaze harden. Instead she began to help the woman back to the house.

I stood a moment, torn between exacting further retribution on these men who still dared insult this lady and my wish to see she was all right. In the end, it was my curiosity about the maid that made me follow her into the house. When I arrived, she was in the kitchen. The new house owner was sat at a table, looking quite shaken, while the maid pottered about the kitchen making some tea. I took a seat across from the woman and watched.

In the background I heard the maid stir a third cup of tea.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Who exactly is the Lord of the Manor, Martha?" Hillary asked, adding sugar to the cup of tea the elder woman had set before her.

"Why, Sir Francis Chichester of course."

"But the owner's name was... "

"Yes, yes. I know that, too. The Manor fell out of the family after Sir Francis passed on with no heirs." Martha cupped a hand near her mouth and added in a not-so-quiet aside, "Died of a broken heart, don't you know."

"And how do you know all this?" Hillary eyed Martha as she set two more cups of tea down on the kitchen table. One was obviously for herself, but the other? "Who... "

Martha pushed the third cup forward and hissed, "Now you just hush and drink it up. I'll be tellin' this story."

"I didn't mean... "

Martha looked and her and chuckled. "Oh no, Miss... erm... Hillary. I wasn't telling you. I was telling... " She cocked her head sharply in the direction of the seemingly empty seat opposite her employer. "Himself over there. Proud as can be at the damage he's done, I'd bet. Naughty man!"

Looking from the empty chair to Martha and back again, Hillary took a sip of her tea. She'd known someone was here, but she didn't understand why he had attacked the movers. This same... entity... had played the Mozart and left her a rose along with that beautiful gown. She just didn't understand where the malice came from.

"Tell me about him?"

"Aye, that I will do," Martha began. "He should be telling you himself. Or at least apologizing for his uncouth behavior. But I'll fill in some of the bits as I have heard tell."

"The women in my family always served the Chichesters, the last one being one of my "greats", Winifred by name. And no... I am not she," Martha added in the general direction of the chair.

"It seems, as stories go, he was smitten by a lass named Emily something or another who threw him over for a pig farmer of all things. It fair broke his heart and he sent everyone packing, only to die a shrivelled old man without a friend to his name. He's done a damage or two to everyone who has tried to live here since. Oh hush! If you don't like my version, tell it yourself!" That last to the chair and the slowly levitating cup which clattered back into its saucer splashing tea all over.

Hillary couldn't help grinning this time as she imagined the look on Himself's face at Martha's impertinence. "Can you tell it yourself, Sir Francis? I mean... if you can move things, swing lamps and... " She left that last unsaid, but continued, "I just wonder if you can speak as well?"

Oh great. Now I'm talking to empty chairs, she thought to herself. But deep down, Hillary knew it wasn't empty and that he had heard every word spoken.

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

As the maid poured him a cup of tea, I chuckled. I could make fluids evaporate... it could look similar to drinking it... and I wondered if this was a way the maid had thought of to let the woman (Hillary she had been called) know I was there. I listened as the maid began to tell what she knew of my story, flinching in surprise when she chided me for joining trying to correct her. Hillary responded to the chiding as though it had been aimed at her, making me certain she could neither hear nor see me. I slumped in the chair a moment, then focussed on raising my tea to let Hillary know I was present.

I barely heard the rest of the conversation, lost in the depressing certainty that I was still alone in the house despite their presence. The maid could see me, but she was merely hired help. As to Hillary...

No. She was blind and deaf to the world of spirits. As she asked me to tell his my story, I hesitated and wondered just what I could do to communicate with her. Then my eyes caught sight of the pad and stylus on the table. He picked them up and, laying down the paper, poised to write.

My tale is simple. I can not blame my Emily for leaving me. I can only presume that it was her need for the... darker sides of passion that led her to seek comfort within the house of young Jonathon. Nothing else could explain it.

I had heard a rumor that she had not been entirely faithful, but I chose to believe the blaggard who told me was a liar. Indeed, I was enraged that he had besmirched my Emily's name.

The pen hovered over the paper as I thought of what had happened outside. Once more, with the words of a vile cur about a lady, I had lashed out. It was justified, of course, but I wished to explain and to apologize to her for the fear I had seen laced through her face. I took hold of the first sheet of paper and ripped it from the pad.

My lady, I am sorry that you were made so afraid by my actions outdoors. I feel that I should explain.

The men who delivered your furnishiture were giving you most ungentlemanly looks and when I heard the disgusting comments they made I had to protect your honor. Please, do not ask me to repeat their words. I cannot, will not, do so. I would not repeat them to a gardner let alone a fine lady such as yourself.

And I would ask you to control your maid and advise her that insulting the Lord of the manor is not a polite thing to do. If she is truly Winifred's descendent, then she should show her the respect of accepting me at least as an eternal guest. I find the affront of her telling me I should apologize most vexing.

I lay down the pen and sat staring at the maid. She should know her place, and I would have to hope that Hillary would take her to task for her ill-mannered behavior.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary watched intently, straining to read the upside down letters, as the pen scrawled across the paper leaving a trail of words in its wake. She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until the page was torn from the pad and fluttered down in front of her.

My tale is simple...

Her eyes skimmed the words. Once. Twice. And yet a third time before she looked up toward the empty seat across from herself. Sir Francis' tale was anything but simple and there was something there that touched her deeply. More deeply than anything or anyone had in longer than she could remember.

"Martha," she said finally with a twinkle in her eye, though struggling to maintain a stern look. "Himself thinks you should keep your place. I'm not sure who the guests here are -- us or Sir Francis -- but he does deserve the respect the Lord of the Manor once held."

Martha began to splutter, but Hillary held her off knowing that there was nothing nor no one who could ever keep her from speaking her mind and she didn't intend to try. At the same time she knew that Martha also understood implicitly. Whether she "behaved" or not would remain to be seen.

Turning back toward Sir Francis, Hillary spoke again. "Why is it that you are still here after all this time? Is there something that we can do to help? And why can Martha see you but I cannot?"

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

"Why is it that you are still here after all this time?" Her words struck across the years and into my heart. "Is there something that we can do to help? And why can Martha see you but I cannot?"

I considered my response, wondering what I could tell her... not what I was willing to but what I was able to. The truth was, I did not know how to respond. Still, as the seconds ticked away I knew she expected a response.

Why am I still here? Sweet lady, where else would I be? This is my home, it is the only place I have ever known as home. Even with my loss, there was nowhere else I wished to reside. And even in death, I have no desire to leave.

In truth I know not why I have not passed beyond the veil as others have in their time. Perhaps I am not welcome within the heavens. I had begun to wonder whether this had become hell in the silence of the years... although I cannot perceive of the possibility of one such as you being in Hell. But I have no answers... and in faith, I am unsure that I want them.

As to the maid, I had wondered if my own dear Winifred had returned. She looks very much like her, all but for the strangeness of the hair style she wears these days. Yet she denies this. Perhaps she is simply a descendent as she states, I can not say. Either way, I have found that few living can see me - perhaps because I am deceased.

Forgive my brash nature, but I had wished that you would be able to. However, I see now that I was foolish. If you so desire I shall return to the attics and remain there. I have no wish to disturb your peace.

I lay down the pen and looked at her. It was a struggle to write so much, and that not so much in the hand as in the heart. She would not be able to see me, I was beginning to grow sure of it. Indeed, I was wondering what I hoped to gain if she could see me. Company? Companionship? This was not Emily... and I was deceased. What purpose was there to be served in communicating with one so beautiful and so untouchable.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary read Sir Francis' words slowly, unable to fathom the sense of despondency he must feel. After centuries of solitude, he seemed to have finally despaired of rediscovering companionship in any guise or form. For some reason that made her feel guilty.

Why couldn't she see or hear him? She had sensed him upstairs -- or at least thought she had. Martha obviously could do both. There had to be a way. Hillary didn't know the how -- yet -- but if there was a way, she would find it.

"Sir Francis," she began. "This is your home despite the fact that I now hold title to the property. I would no sooner relegate myself to the attic rooms than ask you to do so. I'd like to suggest a compromise of sorts."

Hillary knew he was listening though he was probably waiting to respond until she finished. Martha nodded encouragingly and she continued.

"No one has lived here for quite some time. I will presume that you chased them off in much the same manner as you did the movers. This is my home now, too, and that sort of behavior is not excusable."

The pen began to raise from the table but she halted it. "No, please. Listen to what I have to say first." Hillary stared intently toward the empty chair, hoping that he was watching her as she spoke. She wanted him to see the sincerity in her face as well as hear it in her voice.

"Sir Francis, I am a solitary person. I have few friends and will not be entertaining often -- even if the Manor were in condition to do such. Perhaps you have forgotten how things here must have shone and sparkled. I, for one, can imagine how elegant it must have been here at one time and I would like to restore... Well, look around you." Hillary swept her arms around as if to point out every spider web and speck of dust.

"There is simply too much for Martha and me to do on our own. I won't be increasing staff, but I would like to be able to bring in a cleaning crew to get the largest part of the task done. The everyday upkeep will be a snap after that. Now what I need from you is... "

Hillary snatched the pen as it began to rise again, this time keeping it in her hand. "You'll have your say in a minute. I'm almost finished."

She wanted to smile, but was afraid that he would take offense. However, it was important that she made a stance, small as it might be, to set the tone of their cohabitation.

"I would ask that you not disrupt the cleaning crew as they go about their work. Yes, they will touch things and move things and put them where we don't want them to be, but we can always put them back in a more agreeable place when they have finished. The Manor is layered with decades of dust and dirt and I would like it clean so that I can begin to make myself at home -- Martha, too. And no... You don't have to stay in the attic. I would like you to feel free to go where you wish as you have always done."

She pushed the pen back across the table and nodded. "Your turn."

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

She was a spitfire, there was no mistaking that. Her power and determination were as beautiful as her face and I gave up the pen easily to her second grab. I listened to what she had to say before she handed me the pen back.

Sweet Hillary, I have no intention of harming or hindering any that you bring into your... my... our home. That is not my way. Except, of course, where one of them behaves out of turn and then, good lady, I ask you not to seek to prevent me from defending either our property or, perhaps more importantly, your good name.


I sighed deeply. I had not wanted to tell her what the men had said, I had not even truly understood it, yet here I was unable to convince her of my good intentions elsewise. With sad determination I sought to explain.

Good lady, I beg you to indulge me. I see now that, in this modern age, a lady will not believe a gentleman is a man of honor less she has a full explanation. What I overheard those vile miscreants stating as they watched you was:

Look at the teats on that...

and

Hell yeah, I bet she's up for it...

Please forgive me for writing such foul and disgusting words, but I sincerely wish you to understand that I would not have attacked the men had they not been so uncouth as to dishonor a lady so.

Now, as to your desire to move things. I have no objections to this. Indeed, after so many years I can honestly say I feel little attachment to any item within this house.


I stopped a second and reflected on what I was saying. Much as I felt ready to finally face the betrayal that Emily had committed to me, I still loved her. I still cherished her. And I still knew there was one exception to what I had written.

That is, of course, with the exception of the chest in which are stored my Emily's items. They must not be touched, and I assume from your good character, that I can rely on you to ensure that they understand this. Elsewise, let me state categorically that I will, in no way, interfere with such persons as you may choose to hire.


Finally I thought about the other thing she had said. That was a hard thing to face, but after 200 years, it was one I accepted.

Finally, sweet lady, while I thank you for understanding that this house was mine, and allowing that it still is, I would not wish to trouble one who states that they are a solitary person. Fear not, good lady, I shall intrude upon your life no more.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"No! That isn't what I meant!"

Hillary pushed the writing tablet forward, hoping that he would reply. She hadn't meant for him to go away. He'd touched something deep inside of her that made her want -- no, made her need -- to know more. She didn't know what it was, but the last thing she wanted was for Sir Francis to go away. Even if it was for selfish reasons -- whatever those might turn out to be.

"He's gone, dear."

Martha's voice startled Hillary. She'd almost forgotten that the old woman was still there, she'd been so intent on trying to see him, hear him. And that was another thing -- why couldn't she?

"Oh, Martha... "

"I know, dear. I know."

"That's the thing isn't it? What is it that you know? How do you see and hear him when I can't? I... "

"Some call it a gift, child. Others would call it a curse." Martha chuckled softly. "We all have it, just that it is more readily apparent in some than in others. But that is for another day."

Hillary nodded and lifted her face upward, tilting her head to listen as she did so. She'd figure it out. She'd find a way. We all have it, Martha said. It would only be a matter of learning the 'how'.

For the second time in as many minutes, Martha disrupted Hillary's thoughts. "Now what is all this about a cleaning crew? Have you hired one or would you like me to do it for you? The sooner the better, I say. You'll feel much better about things once it's all spit and polish."

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

I returned to my attics, and to my piano. I had learned to play it when I was sufficiently overwhelmed by emotion: depression, unfulfilled passion, excitement, fear... it was through music that one could find relief. It was through music that I sought it now.

Almost unthinkingly I sat at the piano and my fingers fell into the first note with a crash. I didn't know what I was playing, I didn't care, I simply let the music flow from me in the power of disappointed contact. Notes danced and vibrated through the attic ceiling as my fingers fell heavily, the concentration of frustration giving me more strength than most living people.

Toccata and Fuga, d moll... Bach... it took me a while to realize my mind had fallen to a composer I had little patience for but which Hilary had said she found appropriate....

And that proximity to my recent rejection stopped me dead.

With a final crash, I let the last chord echo through the house and left the piano to sit by the window and stare out into the ditant fields and woods.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

The days passed by in a flurry of busywork. Hillary had left it to Martha to assemble the cleaning crew -- mostly family members as it turned out. She'd even enlisted her nephew Garth, who just happened to own a fledgling lawncare service, to do a bit of cleanup on the outside.

Sir Francis was decidedly quiet through it all as they worked from top to bottom, moving pieces of furniture to the lower floors and positioning them where Hillary thought they might once have been -- or at least ought to be. She'd also commissioned an interior decorator to make some recommendations. She could almost hear Sir Francis' voice calling him a greedy popinjay as the tall, spindly man eyed the spectacularly preserved pieces of furniture and tried to persuade her to part with more than one at a disgustingly low price.

"Nothing here is for sale, Mr. Samuels" she'd said. "If it were, I'd be having an estate sale rather than bring you in to help me decorate." Fact was, Hillary knew in her mind's eye exactly what she wanted to do. It was simply easier to have someone with access to the materials and accessories that she required.

Every evening, when the work for the day was finished, Hillary took herself up to the attic rooms with two cups of tea, a notebook and a pen, Sir Francis pointedly leaving all of this untouched. Every evening, she sat sipping hers and talking. Telling him of the progress and what was still to come. Every evening she wondered if he was there. Whether he was pleased or disappointed.

And every evening she took away the tray and went to her bedroom. Wishing she wasn't so alone.

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

Why did she persist? Was it guilt that drove her to keep returning to the attics? She had already made plain her desire to be alone and yet nightly she returned. I watched as she dealt with the blaggards who tried to persuade her to sell the antiques of the place. For myself, I cared little what happened, but as she liked them I tried to support her refusal. Of course, none could hear me.

Again she was back. She spoke with uncertainty in her voice, telling me of what I had witnessed that day. The house was cleaned now. Even the attics had been cleared of antiques save for the piano forte and Emily's box. It was fine, I needed no furniture and could presume only that the piano was left as a gift. Such a tender woman. It was sad that she wanted to be alone.

Sad.

Frustrating.

Of an impulse, I drifted towards the piano and let my fingers hit the keys. They played perfectly. She must have arranged for a tuner to replace the old wires while I was watching the rest of the cleaning. What was that tune she had played? It was one I had not before learned and so had to play it from memory. The plinkety-plunk dance was simple compared to the greater melodies I knew, but I felt her turn to face me.

I eased down two octaves and played the same tune in lower notes. Slowly she stood, as though she understood my intent. She walked over to sit beside me and play a harmony in higher register. I watched her fingers dance, and matched her movements, correcting the few errors I had made.

Pleasant minutes passed in melody as we played together. Eventually, I could resist no longer. I had something I wished to say and the pen lay on a small table.

I am sorry. I wrote. I am unfamiliar with these new conventions of speech. I do not wish to offend you, but I wish to say that you are too sweet and beautiful of a lady to spend her life alone.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary almost spit her tea when Sir Francis began to play Chopsticks. She didn't know many who could hear a badly played tune once and then be able to play it correctly. Albeit a simple tune that anyone could learn, he was obviously an accomplished pianist. Yet another thing she had learned about her mysterious if churlish cohabiter.

This was the first reaction of any sort that she'd gotten from him since that day he sent the movers packing, and not wanting to miss her chance at a duet, she set her cup down in its saucer and hurried over to the bench. Please don't let me hit a sour note now! Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Hillary tossed her hair back, flexed her fingers and began.

Without realizing, the two of them had gradually increased the tempo, playing fast and furious like a burlesque piano version of "Duelling Banjos". Hillary laughed with delight as they played on, feeling suddenly and unaccountably foolish when Sir Francis suddenly stopped. Certain that she'd spoiled everything, Hillary took a deep breath and began a mental search for words to apologize with.

"Sir Francis, I... "

The pen was swirling over one of the pads she'd purposely left in every room of the house. If Hillary ever had company, she figured she'd pass it off as a tool to aid her awful memory. In the meantime, she sat stock still, waiting. This was also the first time he'd deigned to use one.

When he finally set the pen down, Hillary read it once, and then again before looking in the general direction he might be in. "Sir Francis," she began again. "Your words are too kind. And perfect. As to being alone... Well, I have Martha and my books." She paused, debating whether to continue but did anyway. "...And I have you."

Mortified to think that she might not be actually facing him, she stood and walked over to her now cooled cup of tea and idly stirred the spoon, listening to the sound of the silver clinking against the fine bone china as she gathered more words. He was finally talking and Hillary didn't know what to say. She hated that she couldn't see him the way Martha did. Gods, what she would give...

"Perhaps I should get a cat?"

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

A cat? Did she fear rats? Then again, I reflected, there were those who enjoyed the company of such pets. I had never seen the need myself, the hounds were enough. That was not what most interested me in what she had said however. I grasped the pen and wrote again.

What do you mean when you declare that you have me?

I thought for a moment and drew a line through the words. Memories of time past, longings unfulfilled, were not appropriate here. I began again.

Forgive me, sweet lady, I mean no offense. It has been long since I have had the pleasure of company such as yours, and fear I sometimes speak out of turn. Fear not, I shall restrain my tongue... my pen in future.

I considered the woman before me now, how similar she was to Emily in some ways, and how different to anyone I had known. The same was true of the maid. As to the "movers", they behaved in ways that would have been unconsciounable in my time. I had to know more.

My lady, if it is not too much to ask, could you tell me more of yourself. And of your world. I have not strayed beyond the perimiter of my grounds for two hundred years. Everything you bring with you seems peculiar and yet exciting. If you would be so kind, I would know more. Of your world, but particularly of your self.

I lay down the pen and faced her. Would she answer? Was I being too forthright? I hoped not.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Yikes!" Hillary blurted out at Sir Francis' request. Two hundred years. Yes, she knew that, but somehow hadn't taken the time to consider the implications. Two hundred years of innovations and inventions. She couldn't help wondering how many of them would seem actually frightening. And where to begin?

"Sir Francis," she began slowly. "I'm sure you've seen several changes made in the Manor itself over the years, from previous owners as well as myself. I'm not sure where to begin. Yes, yes... at the beginning. But just where is that to be? Perhaps we can begin within the Manor itself."

Lifting the tray from the trunk which had been placed beside the dormer where she normally perched on her evening visits to the attic rooms, Hillary beckoned with a tilt of her chin as she led the way downstairs. She could only hope that he would follow and fought to resist the urge to look over her shoulder as one would do with someone visible. Gods. What had she gotten herself into?

Martha was out for the evening, so she could expect no help from that quarter. They would have to depend on her talking and his replying with pen and paper. IF, she thought again, if he even followed her.

"Okay. Let's start here, since I have to put the dishes away at any rate," Hillary said as she set the tray on the counter and reached down to open the dishwasher. "This," she said, "is called a dishwasher. The water runs through the same pipes that feed into the tap here, but diverts into the machine."

Hillary pulled out the top rack and placed the cups in it. Pushing it back into position, she added the saucers to the plates that were already there. Filling the little compartment with dishwasher liquid, she closed it and looked over her shoulder. "The water enters here," she explained as she gave the spray arm a whirl. It pulses up and washes the dishes before finally rinsing and then drying them. Watch."

Standing up, Hillary closed the door and gave the knob a swirl. "It's going to make noise, so be prepared." As if she would even know if he was startled or not.

Sighing, Hillary turned around and leaned against the counter. She willed herself to see him, but the best she could do was feel a sort of presence if she concentrated hard enough. For what must have been the thousandth time, she wondered why she couldn't see him.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

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