Spellbound Part 2

I don’t remember nights I slept;
but I recall being sleepless, without you,
through the long night watches I kept

Chillingham Manor is haunted by a noisy ghost who’s scaring visitors away.

If this unruly spirit continues his annoying ways, we’ll have no visitors, no guided tours, and Agatha and I will likely part ways and never see each other again.

I can’t talk to her because she has a meeting with the historical board, and I have a tour group arriving any minute.

The only way matters can get worse is if the tour group doesn’t show at all.

Well, the London Ladies tour group showed as Agatha predicted, but greatly reduced in numbers from thirty down to ten.

I still managed to be jocund and jovial. The timeworn jokes and anecdotes, heard for the first time by these ladies, still had them tittering and thoroughly charmed—I prided myself on that.

The tour went off without a hitch and by the time Agatha returned I was elated—until I saw her pale, drawn face.

“What’s the matter—you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have,” she said dourly, “the Ghost of Paychecks Past.”

I sat her down and poured us both cups of Earl Grey, the leftover tea from our visitors still warm in the pot.

She looked thoroughly defeated.

“What happened at the meeting?”

“They gave us three months, Blair—if attendance doesn’t pick up, they’ll have to close Chillingham Manor and the two of us will be out of work.”

“Well, I’ll still have my spiritist sideline—but it’ll be tough making ends meet.”

“I feel like a total failure—we worked so hard at providing an entertaining and informative tour.”

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

“There’s still a chance Agatha—we could confront the ghost.”

“Oh puhlease Blair—not now—I just don’t feel like arguing with you again.”

“But why argue, Agatha? It’s not as if you have other options. The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

She sat silently staring out the window at the gardens beyond.

“It just seems so tawdry.”

“Please Agatha—give it a chance—if only for my sake.”

I half-expected her to laugh scornfully, to disregard my wishes, the way Estella dismissed Pip in a Dicken’s novel—but she didn’t.

“I suppose I owe you this much, seeing as you’ve stayed on here even though we haven’t had a raise in two years.”

I wanted to tell her I would have stayed ten years just for the opportunity of seeing her every day.

“Then, you’ll do it—you’ll stay tonight and help me contact the spirit?”

“God help me—but yes, I’ll do it.”

I wanted to hug her—I needed to touch her. Instead, I ended up impulsively grabbing her hand and shaking it—until I felt a complete fool.

“Let’s meet here at eight.”

She nodded.

Why I said eight was beyond me—I might have as easily said midnight, or the witching hour—which is, as most people don’t know, three a.m. But I said eight, and eight it was.

We both agreed to come in period dress—I told her it was to create ambiance—to reassure the ghost, but actually, it was because I loved the way she looked in her gown.

Being alone at night in Chillingham Manor with Agatha was a fulfillment of all my deepest dreams. Hers was the last face I saw on my ceiling before I fell asleep.

And for me, she was the embodiment of feminine beauty—she was my Estella peering in the window while I slept.

The grandfather clock was softly chiming eight when Agatha walked in. My heart stopped.

She wore makeup—which she never did by day—and her copper brown hair was down, just touching her bare shoulders. The candlelight deepened its luster, accentuating red highlights.

“You look lovely,” I said on impulse.

Put it down to the moment, to the darkness, to her beauty—but I meant it and wasn’t going to take it back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

At that moment, I could care less if the ghost showed and vindicated me, or stayed away leaving her totally alone with me. In truth, my heart was leaning toward the latter.

She draped her dark shawl over a chair. “So, how do we do this?”

“We light a candle, sit at the table and call upon the spirits to manifest.”

“Oh,” she said, flustered.

“I’m joking. I suggest we make tea and light the fire—it’s cool in here—and then wait.”

“That’s all?” She looked like she didn’t believe me.

“If I’m right about you being the source of the activity, he’ll manifest all right.”

“Okay,” she smiled, relieved. “I’ll put on the kettle and you make the fire.”

It felt good going through the rituals of domestic life with her—the sound of clinking teacups—the chuffing of the bellows coaxing embers into flames.

I wished I could peer into our future and see if the coals of her ardor would burst into flame!

But I was getting ahead of myself—it remained to be seen if she would even pass the night with me.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

https://goo.gl/images/CE4swY