An Appealing Apparition

An Appealing Apparition

Patricia Catacalos

License notice: All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Catacalos

All characters in this book, with the exception of historical personalities, have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

England, 1855

He stood next to her canopied bed, admiring the reclining svelte body of the sleeping female. She slept with her curly strawberry-blonde hair freed from any confines, splayed in long tendrils upon her feather pillow. An errant curl kissed her left dark eyebrow as she peacefully dozed.

He wanted to touch her luxurious hair and to feel its softness but he feared waking the sleeping beauty. And, she truly was a beauty. Her symmetrical facial features were delicate and her fair complexion flawless.

But he was confused. Who was she? And how had he come to be in her boudoir?

He surveyed his surroundings, discovering an opulent bedchamber decorated in varying hues of peach and pink…most certainly a woman’s room.

His confusion intensified and he felt slight panic. Nothing looked familiar. Where was he?

His gaze returned to the woman who slept blissfully unaware of his presence. He frowned as he tried to remember how he had arrived here and who she could be. Was she a prostitute?

He never frequented the dens of iniquity to satisfy his needs. He much preferred eager, wealthy widows who were more than willing to satiate his sexual appetite without demanding long term commitments and who were not in the least bit enthralled with his title or his own personal wealth.

He shook his head. Although he did not frequent establishments promoting prostitutes, he could invariably recognize one and this woman was certainly not of that low class.

Closely he examined the fetching female whose room he must have stealthily entered with lascivious intentions. He felt a twinge of guilt. There was no doubt in his mind that this young woman was an Innocent, untouched. It was not just her angelic face which conveyed innocence but it was the modesty of her night rail. The high collar fringed with lace and the long sleeves hemmed with ribbons and bows shouted modest propriety. Not to forget the good quality of the fabric and the expensive opulence of her surroundings.

Again, he searched his memory but all was blank. What was he doing in a Lady’s bedchamber, compromising her by his mere presence? If someone were to discover him, he would be leg-shackled in a ‘forced’ marriage before he could utter a word of protest. The mere thought sent shivers down his spine. Looking toward the window, he almost imagined the faint tolling of wedding bells in the distance…or was it a funeral dirge he was hearing?

Yet, he had no desire to leave her. His eyes returned to the sleeping form. It was as if he was in some way connected to her by some imaginary thread. He thought that an odd sensation.

He stood mesmerized by the loveliness of her face and imagined how her figure looked beneath her bedclothes. There was an outlined hint of slenderness and a suggestion of two full breasts. He felt a slight stirring in his groin.

As if in response to his desire to see her body, a long shapely leg moved and peeked out from beneath the covers. Now he absolutely felt himself harden at the erotic sight of her smooth limb. Slowly, he reached his hand toward the exposed calf, wishing only to caress its smooth skin. But her soft moan halted his progress.

He looked anxiously at her face, fearing she had awakened. But fortunately, she was still in dreamy repose. A contented smile graced her lovely face.

Perhaps he would chance touching her hair instead of caressing her leg. As he had wanted to do earlier, he would comb his fingers through its feathery softness. Then he would leave before discovery. He must leave before discovery.

He reached for strands of strawberry-blonde hair delicately spread upon the soft pillow but his fingers grasped…only air.

He stepped back as his eyes widened in horror. Feelings of dread and bewilderment gripped his heart. He looked down at his two hands which appeared transparent, wholly without substance.

Was he dead and she an angel? Was this heaven? Or was this ‘hell’ where he could look upon her alluring person but never touch her and never feel sexual gratification? He nearly groaned aloud. That would be apt punishment for his rakish lifestyle.

He began breathing heavily as fear clouded his thoughts. He was not a man who frightened easily but the unknown realm of death would prove disconcerting to the bravest of heart.

With tremulous fingers, he tried to touch his square jaw but felt nothing. He looked down at his flat stomach, his muscular thighs, booted calves and feet. They too appeared as translucent as his hands.

He had a sudden thought. Lifting his eyes, he once again scrutinized the room in which he stood. Perhaps this was not hell. Mayhap he was a specter…a spirit forced to roam the earth for eternity as punishment or…to complete an unaccomplished task.

He certainly looked like an apparition. He closed his eyes and racked his brain searching for memories of his death. A pervading sense of melancholy engulfed him. He had been so young to have died…his whole life still ahead of him.

The sleeping woman softly moaned. No doubt she was vocally responding to a dream. The sound drew his eyes to her form once again. Who was she? And if he were indeed a ghost, why was he haunting a woman whose acquaintance he had never made? He shook his throbbing head. He felt as though his brain would explode with all his unanswered questions.

He stepped closer to the side of the bed. It was time to wake her. Perhaps she could answer his questions. He tried to speak but his mouthed words lacked voice. Frustrated, he wondered what he should do to wake the lovely maiden. Impulsively, he bent over her reclined body and blew his breath onto her closed eyelids.

Her face distorted into an annoyed expression as she lifted her right hand to brush away what she most likely perceived to be a bug.

He was amazed. She had felt his breath! Her reaction added to his confusion. Could a specter breathe?

Slowly, he trailed his transparent fingers down the side of her exposed thigh from her hipbone to her kneecap. She stirred in her sleep as she brushed away the ‘insect’ with her own long, slender fingers.

He cocked his head. She had felt his touch! Most curious! His initial fear and confusion were now gradually fading…and being replaced with intense curiosity.

This time he leaned forward and gently kissed her full lips, teasing the lower lip with his tongue. He felt nothing which greatly saddened him. Once again, he thought despondently that perhaps he truly was in hell.

She moaned. She had most definitely felt something.

He leaned slightly away as her eyelids began to flutter and her fingers gently touched her own parted mouth.

Groggily, she awoke, blinking her blue eyes open. Instantly, she saw the man leaning over her and she gasped as she clutched the bedclothes to her chin. She tried to scream but her voice failed her. She felt petrified with fear and unable to move or even to breathe. Her mind was silently screaming. Who was this man? Why was he in her bedchamber?

Her eyes darted to and fro, frantically searching for an object to serve as a weapon but found none close at hand. Then her eyes riveted to the door. She had locked it prior to retiring. Of that she was certain. And her room was on the second floor, high above ground level. How could he have possibly gained entrance?

She began to panic as her imagination painted horrific scenes in her mind. What was the man’s nefarious intent?

Slowly, he stretched his right arm forward as if to touch her trembling hands with his own comforting hand.

She inched away from him, pressing her back against the headboard, cowering in fear.

The moon peeking from behind a cloud shone through the window at that precise moment, revealing the ethereal nature of his extended limb.

Her eyes widened in horror. Again, she tried to scream but found no voice. She trembled as she tightly closed her eyes. She concentrated on her ragged breathing, willing herself to calm down.

Mentally she chastised herself. She did not believe in ghosts. This was a nightmare brought on by excessive fatigue. After all, she had travelled several hours from London to her cousin’s country estate and the journey had just been too much for her. And her nerves had been on edge from the heated discussion she had had with her overbearing mother before her departure...which had, in truth, precipitated her leaving London.

She sat for several long moments before she finally had the nerve to open one eye. She silently prayed that the ghostly man would be gone.

He was still standing beside her bed, smirking mischievously.

She instantly squeezed her eyes closed. Perhaps she had eaten something which did not agree with her and she was suffering from hallucinations. She reminded herself…reassured herself… ghosts did not exist!

He felt relieved and delighted that she could see him. He was also amused by her futile attempts to dispel his presence. She obviously did not believe her own eyes. He was, however, sorry to be frightening her. But what choice did he have? He needed her to help him solve this perplexing conundrum. If only he could speak…

Several minutes passed before she opened both her eyes this time, shocked to discover that the apparition was still present. He seemed to be patiently waiting for her to acknowledge his existence. Summoning every ounce of courage, she possessed, and miraculously finding her voice, she stammered, W-who…who are y-you?

He simply smiled boyishly. Then he stepped backward away from the terrified woman in a mimed attempt to ease her fear. With a roguish grin, he formally bowed.

Only her eyes were visible above the coverlet which she held over the lower half of her face. She tilted her head as she observed the bowing specter. His playfulness somewhat eased her fears…but only somewhat. She began to scrutinize the ghostly man standing before her.

Whoever he was, he was appealingly handsome with his dark, curly hair worn long to his nape and two equally dark eyebrows. His face was perfectly proportioned with classical features enhanced by the two dimples which appeared on both cheeks when he smiled. His transparency made it difficult to discern the color of his eyes but his full lips appeared rosy.

He was dressed in what seemed to be quality garments albeit see-through… a well-cut frock coat and brocade waistcoat with doeskin trousers and polished black boots. Each garment appeared fashionably tailored to accentuate his slender but toned body. Were he not a figment of her imagination, she would have found him most attractive. She nearly giggled aloud. Most appealing, indeed, were she attracted to translucent men.

She grimaced, silently chastising herself for her ridiculous thought. She needed to cling to her fright as self-preservation.

He was feeling strange as if an unseen and powerful force was pulling him away. Nervously, he wondered to where he was being drawn. He did not want to leave her. Not yet. Not until she helped him determine what was happening to him. But he felt powerless to resist the pull.

Then, before her disbelieving eyes the gallant gentleman suddenly faded into nothingness. In a blink of her eye, he was gone.

Chapter TwoGood morning, Charles.

Charles Phillips, the Viscount Chesterholt, lowered the newspaper which he had been perusing at the sound of Portia’s melodious voice and politely rose to his feet. He watched as his cousin blithely sauntered into the breakfast room seemingly without a care in the world. He marveled, for the umpteenth time, at how miraculous it was that a pugnacious and annoying little girl, who he often called ‘Pest’, had grown into such a beautiful and captivating woman.

But then Charles had to admit that attractiveness ran in the genes of the Phillips family. He, himself, was a prime example.

Portia graciously accepted a cup of hot chocolate from a serving maid after gracefully sitting in the chair nearest Charles.

Charles smiled at his cousin while resuming his seat. Good morning to you, Portia. It is a great pleasure seeing you but I must admit my surprise. Why may I ask are you here in the country at my isolated estate when you should be in London enjoying the Season?

Portia had arrived yesterday, very late in the evening, only to discover that her beloved relative was not at home. She had assumed that he was probably out carousing with his rakish friends when she had been informed of his absence. The servants, no doubt, had announced her presence to their Master upon his return.

Portia smiled brazenly. "Why, I am doing exactly what you are doing here in the country, dear Cousin. We are avoiding the marriage mart."

Charles chuckled as he shook his head, causing an errant strand of straight blonde hair to kiss his forehead. I am a notorious rake bent on preserving my bachelor status. I should be here hiding away from the marriage-minded mothers and their overly anxious daughters who are only too willing to please their mamas and snag a husband. He sipped his tea, pausing dramatically, before continuing teasingly, "But you are fast approaching spinsterhood at the advanced age of ten and nine and should be complying with your mother’s wishes to find a spouse."

Portia scrunched her nose at the word ‘spinsterhood’ as if she had suddenly smelled smoothing foul. "You may tease, Charles, that I will soon be ‘long in the tooth’ but I have no desire to comply with my mother’s wishes nor do I wish to be manipulated by her obvious machinations to get me wed. Portia blew cooling breath on the hot chocolate before sipping the scalding liquid. I do not wish to parade myself before fawning and insincere gentlemen who are more covetous of my inheritance than they are desirous of me."

Ah, you think the men are more interested in your purse than in your person. I doubt that. Do you not possess a looking glass? You are a woman of great beauty.

Portia tilted her head in silent appreciation for Charles’ sincerely delivered compliment. Portia sighed. Regardless, I truly do not wish to marry at this present time.

Why not marry at this present time? It would seem to be the perfect time. Charles paused, fearing that he was beginning to sound like Portia’s nagging mother. He smiled an impish grin. Ah, perhaps your attitude is influenced from your time with your mother’s sister who never married and lives a very adventurous life. You have spent the last two years touring the Continent with an extremely progressive-minded woman. His grin widened. And I did notice upon your return that you now possess an air of unconventionality.

Portia mirrored Charles puckish smile. Yes, Aunt Theodora is quite vocal about her independence and is greatly influenced by her friendship with the author, Lady Sydney Morgan, who is a zealous traveler. Travelling with my aunt was quite adventurous and I must admit that I support many of her unconventional attitudes. Portia leaned in closer to Charles as if she were imparting a long-held secret. Mother fears that her sister’s independent spirit will rub off on me and I shall forever refuse marriage. Portia giggled. I most definitely wish to marry but I love feigning disinterest to annoy Mother.

Charles wagged his forefinger at his cousin. Portia, Portia, Portia… your mother is exceedingly anxious to see you settled and constantly nags me to find you a husband. Charles shuddered at the thought of his aunt who was a harpy personified. With the death of your father three years ago, her sole ambition in life is to have you under the protection of a caring husband.

Portia reached across the table and placed her slender hand on Charles’ larger one which rested flat on the table. I am safely under your caring protection, Charles. I am in no rush to marry just for the sake of pleasing my controlling mother.

Charles rested his other hand upon hers, sandwiching her softness between his cupping hands. But, Portia…

She quickly interrupted his next thought, I wish to marry for love and only for love. And, I am not presently enamored with any man. So, may we cease further discussion on this matter? Her blue eyes twinkled. Or shall I be the voice of reason and remind you that you have an obligation to your title and should stop playing the rogue and find a wife to produce an heir? You are seven and twenty, the perfect age…

Stop and desist! Point taken…you win this match! Charles guffawed as he squeezed Portia’s hand before releasing his hold. You are welcome to hide here on my country estate for as lengthy a time as you wish. Or at least, until your mother finds you and drags you back to London.

Portia giggled. Thank you, Charles. I knew you would understand…with a little feminine persuasion. But I am not hiding. Mother knows that I am here. We had a terrible row. I believe that she is allowing me some time to come to my senses. Then, she will swoop down upon us with a vengeance.

Charles shuddered again at the thought of his overly critical aunt visiting. He smoothed his thin blonde mustache with his right forefinger and thumb, an unconscious habit which always produced a debonair affect. The ladies loved Charles’ casually sophisticated air and his unpretentious attitude of entitlement. He was a member of the peerage, easily born to the role.

So, tell me, Portia, how did you sleep last night? Like a babe, I would imagine, after your long carriage ride and your escape from your scheming mother.

Portia’s brow furrowed slightly as she thought back to the previous night.

She had slept well enough until she suddenly awoke to encounter her night visitor, exuding masculine charm. But once he had vanished into thin air, she lay awake apprehensively awaiting the man’s reappearance. When he did not return within an hour’s time, she chastised herself for even momentarily believing in spirits. And, she promptly returned to her earlier assumption that she had merely been dreaming a vivid nightmare. Yet she slept not a wink and rose early with the dawning sun.

Portia, is something wrong? Did I say something indelicate? Your mother means well but she is a prolific schemer…

Focusing her attention on her cousin, Portia dismissed her thoughts. She laughingly reassured Charles, No, no, you are perfectly correct and said nothing unseemly. My mother prides herself on her ability to scheme and strategize with the best of the marriage-minded mamas. Her greatest hindrance is my lack of compliance.

Portia rose from her seat with Charles rising in polite deference.

I slept…very well last night. But I am eager to go riding this morning. Will you join me, Charles?

I would like nothing more. However, I am meeting with my solicitor this morning. He stayed at the village inn, last night, insisting that we meet to discuss much neglected matters. Charles leaned into Portia as he conspiratorially added, I have been amiss in my duties of late. Too much carousing, I fear.

Portia leaned into her cousin, whispering, Ah, I comprehend fully. You bear the all-consuming burden of successfully maintaining your rakish reputation.

Precisely…! However, one must eventually pay the Piper. Charles shrugged nonchalantly, an unapologetic grin on his handsome face.

Portia grinned before gently kissing her cousin on each of his puckish cheeks. She could fully understand how the ladies succumbed to his rascally charms. One day, Portia knew that Charles would find his match and that woman would know how to harness his playfulness. She would lure him to the altar and to marital fidelity.

Eager to enjoy her morning ride, she flounced from the room with a lively bounce to her step.

Chapter Three

Portia delighted in racing her horse, being an accomplished equestrian. She wished that she could ride astride as men did but Society dictated that a Lady sit her horse sidesaddle. One day, she would defy societal rules and race her horse, bareback and astride. Provided no one was present to witness her rebellion.

She had been riding for approximately an hour, crisscrossing the large estate when she came upon a copse of trees which seemed vaguely familiar. The overgrown dirt trail leading into the forest tickled at her memory. Had she traversed that path at one time? Perhaps, when she was a child exploring the estate or trailing after her cousin, much to his chagrin?

A slow grin crossed her exuberant face as a distant memory resurfaced. She had, indeed, followed her fourteen-year old cousin down the path to a small clearing near a trickling brook surrounded by shielding ancient trees where he had met his friend, Nathaniel. There she had spied on their secret ceremony…

"Did you bring the penknife?"

"Yes. I took it from my father’s desk. Hopefully he will have no need of it to mend his quill until I can return it." Charles pulled the single blade knife from the deep pocket of his woolen pants. He displayed it in his open palm for his friend to see.

"We shan’t be long. We should roll up our shirt sleeves in case we bleed excessively," Nate stated as he tossed his jacket over the branch of a nearby tree.

"Bleed excessively? I…I thought that we…we were only pricking the tip of our forefinger?" Charles stammered nervously, removing his own jacket and placing it on a tree stump.

"We are. But you can never be too careful when using a penknife. I heard tell that two boys intended to become blood brothers by pricking their fingers but the knife slipped and one boy nearly lost the tip of his finger entirely." Nate smiled mischievously.

"You jest, Nate. No such thing ever happened," Charles growled.

"You needn’t fear. I am only teasing. But we must be careful not to stain our shirt sleeves and be questioned as to why we were bleeding. Nate rolled up his long shirt sleeves as he spoke. Now let us begin…"

Nate took the penknife from Charles as Charles rolled up his own white cotton sleeves. Nate pricked his finger first before handing the knife back to his friend. He then squeezed his fingertip, producing oozing blood. Charles did the same. When both lads had sufficient blood flow, they touched each other’s pricked finger.

Solemnly Nate spoke his vow. Today we mix our blood. From this day forward we are blood brothers sworn to protect each other’s person and pledge allegiance to each other’s cause in life and in death.

With equal solemnity, Charles repeated the same vow.

Releasing each other’s fingers, each boy removed a handkerchief from his pocket to suppress the blood flow on his pricked finger.

"I think that we should bury these stained handkerchiefs. Then no one will know…" Nate abruptly stopped talking as he raised his bleeding forefinger to his lip, miming silence. He stood perfectly still with his head tilted in a listening pose.

Charles’ eyes darted about, searching for the potential danger. He whispered anxiously, What is it, Nate? Did you hear someone?

Without moving a muscle, Nate’s searching eyes investigated the environs. Several feet from where they stood lay a fallen tree with its bark chard, presumable struck by lightning. Dense foliage grew around its thick trunk but peeking through the fauna was a spot of pink.

Tiptoeing toward the speck of color, Nate waved for Charles to circle around and approach the tree from behind. Charles silently complied. He too had spotted the colorful incongruity.

As Nate neared the tree, he spied a larger splash of pink visible above two spindly legs ending in small black ankle boots. Leaning forward for a better vantage point, Nate discovered a mop of strawberry-blonde curls tied into a long ponytail with a delicate pink ribbon. The prone little girl was lying with her hands covering her face as if by so doing she would make herself invisible.

"Portia, Portia, Portia! What are you doing here?" Charles shouted as he spied the six-year old child hiding behind the fallen tree and cocooned in the undergrowth.

Rolling onto her back, she giggled. I followed you, Charles. I want to play, too.

"She followed you? Nate raised a dark eyebrow. I told you to be very careful not to be seen when coming here."

"I thought I had lost her, Charles explained, exasperatedly. She follows me everywhere. She is an infuriating pest."

"Who is she?"

Jumping lithely to her feet, the skinny girl regally lifted her pointed chin as she formally introduced herself. I am Lady Portia Phaedra Penelope Phillips, cousin to Charles Patrick Andrew Phillips, future Viscount Chesterholt. She had introduced herself in the formal and rigid manner she had obviously been coached to do.

"She is your cousin? Nate gasped. Why is she here?"