Chapter Six
Clara trotted swiftly beside Alden as he led her beyond the Heath, through the lanes that led to Highgate, and into the cemetery itself. Once again, the gates were unlocked, though Clara wasn’t certain why they would be so late.
The merriment and light of the celebrations quickly faded behind them. This was a place of death, of quiet contemplation of what had once been.
Clara tried to contain her bewilderment as Alden guided her through the paths inside the burial ground, his lantern held high.
She could not fathom what he’d told her—Piers Forsythe, dead? She thought of the cheerful gentleman she’d met, with his wry turn of phrase and a faint air of self-mockery. She’d liked him, trusted him.
But now, it seemed, she’d met a fraud. The most likely explanation was that some gentleman, for reasons unknown, had decided to impersonate Mr. Forsythe. But then, why hadn’t Alden exposed him, shouted at him? It wasn’t like him to ignore such a thing.
Another possibility was that Mr. Forsythe had tricked the world, including his closest friends, into thinking him dead.
Clara had heard of people doing so in order to flee their creditors or to escape danger from someone they’d angered.
It seemed a cruel hoax to play on Alden, who clearly grieved the man.
Again, if the second explanation were true, why hadn’t Alden confronted the man when he’d appeared, demanding to know what he was about?
Mr. Forsythe had followed them into the tomb to help free Harvey, though he hadn’t been able to get close to the dog. He’d also announced that Alden’s uncouth friends had arrived, and took Alden’s suggestion to convey Clara away from them.
Though, if Clara thought it through, Alden had never actually spoken to Mr. Forsythe that day, or answered him. She had assumed Alden had seen and heard him, but thinking back, he hadn’t directly addressed the man or even looked at him.
The third explanation, that she’d seen and spoken to Mr. Forsythe’s ghost, was absolute nonsense. Mr. Forsythe had been very alive, amazingly so, and besides, spirits were only supposed to float about at night.
Also, Harvey had seen him. Clara was certain of that.
No, she’d spoken to the true Mr. Forsythe or someone purporting to be him. She must have done.
Alden strode along the path, muddy from the previous days’ rains, and tugged Clara to a halt in front of a grave marker. It was marble and rectangular, with a plain stone cross perched on top.
Its inscription read: Piers James Forsythe, 1819-1849. Beloved brother and friend.
“I wish it were otherwise,” Alden said. “But here he is.”
Clara stared down at the grave, her heart squeezing. Regardless of whom she’d met, Alden mourned the man who lay beneath this marker.
“Brother?” she asked softly.
Alden nodded. “His sister, Ellen, and I put up the stone. I was afraid she would blame me, but she does not. Puts the guilt squarely on Forsythe and Benton for deciding a duel was the best way to settle their differences, in this day and age. We all thought they’d delope—shoot into the air. But they didn’t.”
Clara leaned closer to him, hand around his forearm. “I am so very sorry, Alden. I did not mean to distress you.”
“I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard the tale. I thought everyone knew it. I never wanted to speak of it to you because … you gave me so much hope. So much strength. I didn’t want to break the happiness I finally was feeling.”
She rubbed his coat sleeve. “Please, speak to me all you like of him,” she said softly. “I will be glad to listen.”
Alden leaned to her, his warmth cutting the chill of the night, and brushed a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you, Clara.”
“I love you too, Alden.”
Clara’s heart was full. Alden’s next kiss held fire and promise. It made her regret that May was so far away.
At their feet, Harvey came alert. As Alden and Clara eased from each other, Harvey’s nose twitched, his gaze searching the darkness. Then, with a sudden jolt, he rushed off into the brush.
“Damnation,” Alden growled. “Not again.”
“I see him,” Clara said. Harvey had stopped on the other side of the hedge that separated these grave markers from ones beyond. “I’ll fetch him. You stay and pay your respects.”
She knew Alden would try to argue with her, so she simply hurried away, making her way around the hedges instead of plunging through them as Harvey had. He’d need a thorough brushing to take out whatever leaves and twigs tangled in his coat.
“You oughtn’t worry Alden like that,” she told the dog when she reached him. “He becomes cross as a bear when he’s worried.”
“He does, at that.”
He stepped out of the shadows, as impeccably dressed as before, his tall hat glistening with the clinging mists. Mr. Forsythe tipped said hat and gazed at Clara with his good-humored brown eyes, a smile of self-deprecation hovering about this mouth.
Clara’s temper splintered. She rushed at him, fists balled at her side. Harvey rushed with her, growling up at Mr. Forsythe, echoing her rage.
“Mr. Forsythe, you are not to be believed. How could you?”
Mr. Forsythe’s brows rose. “Beg pardon? How could I what?”
“Pretend that you were killed. Alden is grief-stricken. If you had to escape from creditors—or whatever your reasoning—could you not tell him? In any case, you can put him out of his misery, at once.” She held out her hand. “Come, we will tell him, together.”
Mr. Forsythe retreated a step. “That I cannot do, good lady.”
“Why not? He will keep your secret. After he pummels you for upsetting him so, that is.”
Mr. Forsythe didn’t laugh. “Alas, it is impossible. He can’t see me, the wretch.”
Clara glared at him. “What do you mean, he can’t see you? I see you very well. So does Harvey.” The dog, cued, growled again.
“You do, yes. I’ve tried and tried to speak to Alden, but he never sees, never hears. A bit of a blow to my pride, that. However, I rejoiced when you acknowledged me, talked to me as though I existed.”
“You do exist,” Clara said impatiently. “I find your joke in poor taste.”
“I wish it were so, dear lady.”
Mr. Forsythe removed his hat and set it on the nearest marker. Then he unbuttoned his coat. Clara raised her hand to her eyes in consternation when he opened his waistcoat and began unbuttoning the shirt beneath.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
“Showing you. Do you believe me now?”
Clara peeked at him between her fingers. Mr. Forsythe had pulled open his shirt.
In the middle of his chest, which held the gray pallor of death, was a dark hole, black with blood, such as a bullet would make.
Clara’s hand came down as her lips parted, her body going rigid. She saw now that Mr. Forsythe’s face was unnaturally pale in the moonlight, his lips nearly blue. Why had she not noted this before?
“I never thought Benton had it in him,” he went on. “Poor fool looked aghast when I went down. Pure luck he hit me as precisely as he did. He’d never hit a target before in his life.”
Clara couldn’t move. Her thoughts whirled, trying to adjust themselves to what she was seeing. Harvey had ceased growling and now watched Mr. Forsythe in curiosity.
“I know Alden was devastated,” Mr. Forsythe said.
“His grief is more than I deserve. That is why I nudged you two together. He’s soppy about dogs, though he’d never admit it, and I knew you’d be good for him.
” He laughed as he drew the lapels of his shirt together and re-buttoned his waistcoat.
“I say nudged, but he nearly knocked you over.”
Clara had always thought it a sublime coincidence that she and Alden had collided on the path, though at the time, she’d been most put out.
“You did that?” she managed to say.
“Of course. Assisted as much as I was able—Alden is certainly stubborn. I had a devil of a time keeping the cemetery’s gates unlocked for you and distracting the caretaker so he’d leave his lantern behind, I must say.
Could have knocked me down with a feather when I realized you could see and speak with me.
You too, Harvey.” Mr. Forsythe beamed at the dog as he buttoned his coat. Harvey’s head cocked.
“I still don’t understand,” Clara said woodenly, though something inside her understood very well.
“I am a ghost, my dear. A haunt, a spirit, a specter, whatever you want to call it. Nothing too terrifying, I hope. I suppose I should gibber and moan, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“You are not frightening at all,” Clara said. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Forsythe.”
“And your kindness has made my odd existence better. But … ah, look at this.” Mr. Forsythe gazed down at his body, which shimmered in a chance beam of moonlight.
“A moment—I believe my good deed might have earned me a way out of this gloomy graveyard. Meeting you has been a great pleasure, Lady Clara, but I would be happy to cease hanging about this damp place.”
Clara swallowed, emotions wringing her. “I do hope so, Mr. Forsythe. You deserve happiness.”
“Thank you, dear lady. Hm, I wonder—will I go up instead of down? My sister, Ellen, never thought I’d amount to much, but maybe I’ll meet her above when it’s time, after all.”
Clara’s eyes stung as Mr. Forsythe’s body became more and more transparent. He snatched up his hat and set it on his head, as though one couldn’t enter heaven unless one was properly dressed.
“Thank you, Mr. Forsythe. Piers. For all you’ve done for us.”
“Ah, she favors me with my name.” Mr. Forsythe made her a wavering bow, the moonlight shining through him now. “Be happy, my friend. And look after that lump, Alden. He needs you.”
Clara nodded. “I know.” She needed Alden as well. Her heart was full.
Mr. Forsythe glanced around in wonder, as though he was seeing the light and glory that was promised to the good.
“Farewell, my lady. I hope you remember this scoundrel with fondness.”
“I will. Be well, Mr. Forsythe.”
He smiled as he faded, giving her his jaunty salute.
A wind sprang up, mist wafting between Clara and where Mr. Forsythe had stood. When it cleared, he was gone.
Harvey rose, tail waving. He barked at the empty space then looked up at Clara in inquiry.
“Where the devil have you got to?” Alden’s voice rolled over them before he came crashing around the hedge. “There you both are. I thought I’d have to hunt for you again.”
“As I mentioned,” Clara said to Harvey, “he’s churlish when he’s worried.”
“I am not churlish, I am—” Alden broke off, but his scowl didn’t smooth. “What are you looking at?”
Clara peered into the space where Mr. Forsythe had been, half expecting him to pop back in with a humorous comment about Alden.
But he was gone. A breath of cool wind touched her cheek, and she thought she heard the whisper of laughter.
“Nothing,” she said. She turned, sliding her arm through the crook of Alden’s. “We should go home now.”
“We should, yes.” His voice softened. “I apologize, Clara. Thinking of Forsythe makes me melancholy, though it has become easier these days.”
“I must have been mistaken about seeing him,” Clara said, knowing Alden would never believe the truth. She laid her head against his shoulder. “We will always think of him, and remember him. He was a good man. A very good one.”
“In his own way, yes, he was. A true friend.”
“If you’d like, I can ask my mother if she’ll plant a rosebush at his marker,” Clara said. “One in his favorite color. She can find roses of all shades, even blue and silver.”
Alden huffed a laugh. “He’d like the silver. Always had to be the epitome of fashion.”
“Then he shall have it.” She took the leash Alden carried and hooked it to Harvey’s collar. “Shall we go?”
“A moment.” Alden turned Clara to him and pulled her to him for a heated kiss.
It went on, that kiss. Alden explored her mouth, tangling with her tongue. Clara clung to him, her blood warming, the cold of the night receding.
She heard laughter again, and possibly a whisper. Well done.
When the kiss ended, Alden brushed back a lock of Clara’s hair. “Let us go home, my love.”
It would be a true home, Clara thought as they turned their steps toward the gate. With Alden and Harvey, her family not far away, and surrounded by the wild beauty of the Heath.
They emerged from Highgate not long later, the mists fleeing as they strode down the hill toward the bonfires and revelry. Warm cottages lay on the edge of the Heath, with the welcoming lights of home.
Behind her, Clara heard the creak of a gate, and then a sigh, one of release and contentment.
Alden pulled her to him again for another kiss, then they broke apart as Harvey yanked them on, trying to make for the Griffin cottage and his late supper.
Clara laughed, and Alden’s rang with hers, as they ran with him for home.
The End