Chapter 20
The funeral was held on an unseasonably hot day with not a cloud in the sky. Christopher wore a black armband over his most staid coat of heather grey, offering a steadying elbow to Cook on his left, Har-ding a dark shadow on his right. A few prayers, a few words from the vicar, and then the coffin was lowered into the ground. The whole thing seemed to take less than a minute. Christopher thought it all very unfair. Plinkton deserved a horrid, rainy day for his funeral. There should have been thunderclouds encroaching, he thought, and water pouring from the church eaves. Rain should have dripped from the brim of Christopher’s hat until he removed it at the graveside, and then the rain should have mixed with his tears.
As it was, the weather held that morning, and his only tears—-two of them, one from each eye—-fell silently down his cheeks.
Har-ding offered a handkerchief, but Christopher waved it away. What he -really wished to do was lean upon Har-ding’s capable shoulder, but that was impossible. His head was still awhirl with the final words he’d exchanged with Plinkton. He felt like a brittle piece of long grass buffeted by strong winds, like he would break in half at any moment for the slightest reason. No, he would not reach for Har-ding or his handkerchief. Much as he ached to.
Cook was dry--eyed and red--faced. She had already cried all her tears days ago, Christopher knew. He had held her hand as she’d done so, sitting on the edge of Plinkton’s narrow bed. Together, they had packed up the room and its meager belongings. There had not been much: a Bible, a pair of walking boots, a stack of letters bound in red string that Christopher had not dared to read, save for their postmarks. Christopher had made every effort to write to the man’s remaining family, but his letters had yielded no real results. The few responses he’d received over the week indicated that so--and--so from his brother--in--law’s side of the family was no longer at the last known address, or that what’s--his--name from Plinkton’s hometown had passed the year previous.
It seemed horrendously sad that a man who had lived such a long life as Plinkton had so little to show for it in the end.
Plinkton had served three generations of Winterthropes. He had been more of a father to Christopher than any other man. And if Christopher understood their final conversation correctly, he had remained devoted despite—-or even because of—-Christopher’s unusual make. Christopher owed him so much, but what had Plinkton ever been given?
“That’s that, then,” Cook said as the gravediggers began to cover the coffin lid with their spadefuls of dirt.
“Yes,” Christopher said, his voice steadier than he expected it to be. Har-ding was a warm presence at his side. “Let’s go.”
They walked from the churchyard and over the hills back to the manor. Christopher had suggested the carriage, thinking of Cook’s poor ankles, which he knew had seen better days, but she had insisted on leaving the horses in their stalls. She leaned heavily on Christopher’s arm, though, with Har-ding hovering at her other side as if prepared to swoop in should she need more support, and for that Christopher was grateful. Cook gave a sigh as the rooftops of Eden Abbey appeared over the last rise.
“This is the part I’ve been dreading,” she confided. “Even when it was just the two of us, me and Plinkton, we did our best to keep each other’s spirits up. ‘Not a bad job,’ I’d tell him. ‘Only position I’ve ever had where I needn’t cook a full dinner but once or twice a year. How many earls are content with just tea and toast for supper?’ ” She gave a single chuckle. “Don’t know what I’ll do without him around, to be honest.”
“We are all poorer for his absence,” Har-ding said with quiet sympathy. “Though I knew him only a short while, I admired the man very much.” He looked at Christopher, barely managing the feat over Cook’s bowed head, and held his gaze. “I would not dare attempt to take his place, but if there is any task that needs doing, some office of Plinkton’s that I might take up, you need only ask.”
Christopher could not even form the words to thank his valet. Har-ding had been indispensable these last few days, despite having had no time to catch his breath since Gretna Green. He merely nodded and hoped it would suffice.
The remainder of the funerary day passed in a blur. Cook offered Christopher something for dinner, and he ate it, but he couldn’t say what it had been. Afterward, he sat by the kitchen fire and stared into its flames, unable to move or think. It was only Cook’s gentle coaxing that forced him from the spot.
“You need some rest. We all do,” she’d said. “Even him.” Her gaze went to the ceiling, gesturing to where Har-ding lurked upstairs. The man had taken on the bulk of the arrangements since Plinkton’s death, not allowing himself a moment’s peace.
“I will endeavor to see that he does,” Christopher promised.
It was a sad and disheveled Lord Eden who finally limped upstairs to his bedroom in the wee hours of the night. He opened the door to his dressing room to find Har-ding, looking just as worn, diligently unpacking a trunk of shirts from London. What with all the funeral planning and hopeless attempts at contacting Plinkton’s kin, that chore had fallen by the wayside.
“I’m nearly finished, my lord,” Har-ding said, his eyes flicking up from the shirts he was refolding. “You’ll be able to dress for bed in a moment.”
“You should be dressing yourself for bed right now,” Christopher parried. “Leave all this, Har-ding. You can see to it in the morning.”
“There is only one last trunk.”
“To hell with the trunk. You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since your sojourn to Scotland.” He rubbed his face. He was so tired, he was nearly willing to fall into his pillow fully clothed and risk ruining the lines of his trousers. Nearly. “There is still the matter of the few days’ rest you’re owed for that.”
“I can hardly cease my duties now that—-” Har-ding began.
A bright flash and loud crack of thunder made them both jump several inches off the ground. Christopher stood in the silence that followed, gazing up at the ceiling. It had sounded like the heavens were opening up directly above the Abbey.
“Good lord,” he murmured. The rain that had been absent for the funeral at last arrived in a furious torrent. Wind and rain lashed at the windowpanes and licked against the old roof. The noise was tremendous. It made Christopher feel as if he were trapped in a jar that had been thrown into the sea.
Har-ding opened his mouth to say something, but he was drowned out by another crack of thunder, this one so close it sounded as if a great tree was splintering overhead. Christopher startled into the corner of the dressing room farthest from the windows, bumping into a chest of drawers and upsetting the collection of snuffboxes that sat atop it. Two fell to the carpet with dull thumps, accompanied by more distant growls of thunder.
Christopher gave a thready laugh, though it sounded more like a moan. “I should have been expecting that.” He swallowed down the racing of his heart. A horrible feeling of impending doom was enveloping him even now; he could feel its heavy fingers squeezing the sense from his mind. He hadn’t had a waking attack of nerves like this since the Leftmores’ ball.
“My lord.” Har-ding was at his elbow, holding him upright.
“I’m fine, I’m absolutely fine,” Christopher lied. Even his voice couldn’t contain its tremble. He must have been more affected by Plinkton’s death—-and deathbed confession—-than he thought.
Har-ding stared at him in the low flickering light of the few candles that were still lit. Christopher couldn’t meet his gaze for more than a moment. He felt as if every weakness he held inside was written plain on his face, and Har-ding could read every word of it.
Then, somehow, things got worse.
An inhuman howl welled up from somewhere down the hall, screeching through the Abbey like a banshee. Christopher couldn’t help himself; he gave a sharp cry and attempted to flatten himself farther against the chest of drawers, as if by doing so he could make himself disappear. He shut his eyes tight, no longer trying to hide his fear.
“That’s it, then,” he whispered in a rush. “They’re here. It’s over.”
“My lord, what are you talking about?” Har-ding asked.
Another eerie wail floated through the manor, this time accompanied by a multitude of nightmarish chitters. Christopher had the distinct impression that someone was walking over his grave.
“The Eden ghosts.” He hid his face against Har-ding’s shoulder as another volley of terrible screams assaulted him. “Surely you hear them! It’s not just me, is it?”
“I hear something,” Har-ding said, shouting to be heard above the din. “I don’t know what it is, but I assure you, there are no ghosts coming for you.” Har-ding’s hand moved from his arm to grasp his shoulder. He leaned in very close. “There’s no such thing. There is only us, here, now.”
“No, you’re wrong.” Christopher shook his head. “Ghosts are very real. Oh, they’re more real than the man you see before you.” He shuddered at his own words, at the implication.
“I must disagree, my lord.” Har-ding tipped his head to the side, considering him. “My lord?”
But Christopher wasn’t listening. He could only hear distant sounds from a ship that had ceased to sail long ago. The wood creaked around him and the canvas flapped on the mainmast. The salt smell of the air overwhelmed him. He stared past Har-ding at nothing, across the years of memory.
“Lord Eden.” Har-ding placed his warm, firm hands on Christopher’s shoulders and gave him a hard shake. “Christopher!”
His attention at last snapped back to his man. “James?”
Worry creased those handsome features so that a small furrow appeared between his brows. Christopher, in a fleeting moment of hysteria, thought it might be nice to touch it. Har-ding cleared his throat. “There is nothing in the house except you and me and Cook. Do you understand?”
Christopher hesitated, still shaking from the vestiges of terror. “I hate to contradict you, dear fellow, but—-” Another howl tore through the darkness. They both jumped at the horrid sound. Even after it had died away, it seemed to echo in Christopher’s ears. “All right, Doubting Thomas,” he whispered to Har-ding, “care to explain that?”
“It’s only the wind,” he said, his voice damnably steady. “There must be an open window in the west wing. Come, let’s close it up. You’ll see I’m right.”
Christopher flinched. “Cook will find our bodies by morning, curled up on the floor like little beetles, dead of fright. That’s how all ghost stories end.”
“This is not a ghost story,” Har-ding insisted. He reached for a nearby chamberstick, its candle wavering in the dark. “Your fears are unfounded. Come see the proof.” His eyes softened as he looked back at Christopher, or maybe it was just the candlelight. “You might be able to sleep through the night, sir, if you’re not constantly worried about lost souls roaming these halls.”
Christopher heaved a shaky sigh. He could see that Har-ding would not be deterred. Besides, the alternative was staying here in the dark while Har-ding went marching into the unknown, and Christopher’s instincts told him it was better to remain together. At least then he wouldn’t die alone.
“Fine,” he said. “If you insist.”
Har-ding urged him to take one of the candlesticks from the sideboard, and then they trooped -toward the derelict western wing of the manor.
As they made their way down a rarely walked hall, Christopher felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. Here in the abandoned wing of Eden Abbey, the storm sounded like the pounding of hundreds of horses’ hooves against flinty ground. Lightning flashed in an endless dance outside the grimy windows, blinding him every so often. But the noise—-that ghoulish, soul--freezing screeching—-was the worst of it. It rose in volume as they crept down the hall until, coming to the last door at the end, it seemed as if hundreds of foul spirits had surrounded them on all sides.
Har-ding, for all his earlier bravado, now had enough sense to look a bit pale around the edges. He glanced at Christopher and gestured to the shut door, wordlessly indicating they should investigate whatever was behind it.
This was a position Christopher could neither understand nor support. He shook his head violently, the candle in his hand wavering as he moved. “I can’t.” It came out in a bare whisper, a mere movement of lips against the cacophony of the ghosts.
“We must,” Har-ding said. He offered Christopher his hand, palm up and flat. And he waited for Christopher to take it. “We will.”
Christopher hesitated for a long moment, then laced their fingers together. His instincts were shouting at him to run—-perhaps to the study, where an ancient hunting rifle might provide some measure of protection. But the body reacts as it is wont to react, and in that moment, Christopher was paralyzed. He felt himself being tugged forward by Har-ding, knew he was being led closer to the door, but it was like watching a pantomime from the back row: everything was happening at a great distance and didn’t seem to involve him in the slightest.
He was absolutely certain he was going to die.
And what’s more, he was sure he deserved it.
It had been a long time coming, after all. No man could cheat Death forever, not even one as unusual as he.
Har-ding released his hand and reached for the doorknob. The screeching only got worse, an inhuman scream, like something meant to hunt Christopher until it had him in its maw. Perhaps it had been following him all these years, and now that Plinkton was gone, the moment had arrived for Christopher to be struck down.
Har-ding opened the door.
They were met immediately by a blast of wind that snuffed out their lights, and a torrent of cold rain that drenched their clothes and hair. The candlestick fell from Christopher’s slack hand, hitting the wet floorboards with a terrible clang. It was so very like that other storm, in that other place, that he had weathered long ago. No—-it was the exact same storm, he was sure of it. It had never stopped raging, not for ten long years.
Christopher had been right to be afraid: the storm was here to take what it was owed.
But it couldn’t take Har-ding. Christopher could not allow that. The man was innocent; his only crime was skepticism. Suddenly Christopher’s limbs were not so frozen, and the strength that had deserted him rushed back in.
“No!” he shouted into the wind, though his voice was drowned out. He staggered -toward Har-ding and tried, with all his might, to shove the fool out of the way. These were his ghosts and no one else’s. “Har-ding, get away!”
“My lord—-”
Christopher tasted water on his tongue—-shouldn’t it be salty? Not this sweet, surely? He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to see anyway, and readied himself for the end. He could only pray Har-ding found the sense to run. “Damn you, man, go!”
“My lord, look. ”
Christopher opened his eyes and saw—-
Well, he saw a big fucking hole in his roof, for one.
The storm had torn away some of the more precarious slates atop the western wing. The resulting crack in the ceiling was as wide as a man was tall, and from this crack came the relentless wind and the rain. But that was not all the room contained.
“There are no ghosts, you see?” Har-ding pointed to the dark, dank corners.
Christopher’s vision coalesced back into something he could understand. Har-ding was right; instead of wispy spirits, he saw loads of beady yellow eyes looking back at him from the shadows. Their fur was dark and matted from the rain. Their horrible chitters had risen at their intrusion, and now they scattered all along the floor, their claws scratching at the worn boards. Christopher saw one of his lost cuff links sitting on the ground in a puddle of filth and rainwater. The glint of other baubles shone in dark corners. No doubt his missing watch fob was among them, secreted away not by ghosts, but by—-
“Rats,” he said to himself. Not heavenly retribution, not the souls of those he had wronged. Only vermin. He began to laugh. “It’s just rats. ”
He bent double with his hands braced on his knees, laughing like a madman. And why not? He’d certainly gone mad for a moment there. Stark raving.
“Har-ding! It’s only rats!”
Har-ding didn’t exactly dissolve into mirth alongside him, but the hand he placed on Christopher’s back felt more amused than usual. “Quite, my lord,” he said, the relief in his voice a palpable thing.
Christopher straightened, then felt the manic grin slip off his face. “Har-ding?” He eyed the mass of creatures.
“Yes?”
“There’s an awful lot of rats.”
“You’re not wrong, my lord.”
“And is it my imagination or,” Christopher took a cautious step backward as the wave of vermin advanced in fits and starts -toward their feet, “are they getting closer?”
“It may be prudent to retreat.” Har-ding jabbed his unlit chamberstick at the nearest rat and grabbed Christopher by the lapel of his coat, hauling him backward out the door. Together, they slammed the thing against the roaring wind until it was shut tight.
They stood there a moment, listening to the continued patter of rain and the displeased squeaks of the rats.
“How does one, erm, deal with that amount of rats?” Christopher asked.
“I will make arrangements tomorrow, sir. Surely there’s someone in the village willing to lend a few rat--catchers.” Har-ding grimaced. “I will hire someone to repair the roof as well.”
“Good.” Now that the absurd adventure was over, Christopher felt all the wasted vigor curdle in his blood, leaving him as weak as a babe. He slumped against the door, his hot forehead pressed against the damp wood. He couldn’t seem to get his breathing back under control. “That’s . . . good,” he choked out.
“My lord.” The touch of Har-ding’s hand on his back was the only real thing Christopher could feel. Everything else was spinning around him. “Before you saw the vermin—-it sounded as if you feared for your life.”
“Oh, that?” Christopher attempted a lighthearted laugh, but it fell rather flat. “Yes, I suppose I acted like the worst fool. You must think me very stupid.”
He hoped, desperately, that he and Har-ding would fall back into the roles they had set for themselves ages ago: the bumbling yet charming young master, the stalwart and cool manservant. And at the same time, he prayed that something would change, for he could not imagine another moment playing at the charade.
Har-ding’s strong hand did not leave him. “My lord, I—-” he said, and then said nothing more.
“I’m sorry,” Christopher said, and his voice broke. He turned his head -toward those dark, dark eyes. Their lashes were tipped in rainwater, and as Christopher watched, a blink caused a droplet to cascade down Har-ding’s cheek. Probably the closest such a self--composed man would ever come to crying, he thought. There was something about Har-ding’s nearness, the heat of him even through the sodden layers of their clothes. It made Christopher think that perhaps he wasn’t the loneliest, most wretched soul in existence. “I’m so, so sorry.”
When Har-ding spoke again, it was quiet and laced with concern. “You cannot keep the whole world at arm’s length, my lord,” he said. “Not forever.”
There was nothing Christopher could say in response that would not utterly destroy him. They stayed there, silent and unmoving, for long moments, until even the rats grew quiet and only the sounds of their breathing and the rain filled the hall.