Christine Merrill - One Snowy Regency Christmas - A Regency Christmas Carol / Snowbound with the Notorious Rake

Miss Lampett, in a similar situation, would have likely announced to the assembly that the whole trip was a thinly disguised attempt at business and refused to take any part in it. For some reason the imagined scene did not bother him. He could just as easily imagine drawing her out in the hall to remonstrate with her, only to have the conversation degenerate into another heated kiss.

When his valet had left him for the night he settled back into the pillows and pulled the blankets up to his chin, closing his eyes and thinking of that kiss. He really shouldn’t have taken it. It had been improper and unfair of him to take advantage of her innocence. But he would do it again if he had the chance. That and more …

He awoke hungry. It made no sense. The clock was only striking one, and dinner had been a feast, stretching late into the evening. He had partaken of it with enthusiasm. But it was gone from him now, leaving his guts empty and gnawing on themselves in the darkness.

He had not known want like this since he’d become master of his own life. This was the kind of nagging hunger he’d felt as a child, going to bed with an empty belly and knowing that there would be nothing to fill it again tomorrow. It was a kind of bleak want that existed in the body like an arm or a leg: something that one carried with one from moment to moment, place to place, always there and impossible to cast off.

But it was easily rectified now. He had but to sit up in bed and ring for a footman. He would explain the need and have it filled. It would mean getting some poor maid out of her bed to do for him. But what was the point of having servants if one could not make unreasonable demands upon them?

When he opened his eyes, the room was strange. Not his own bedroom at all, but a different, emptier room, filled with a strange, directionless golden haze.

From the corner of the room there was a sigh.

Joseph sat bolt upright now, searching for the source of the sound. And with it he found the origin of the glow. A man sat in the corner—a Cavalier, in a long well-curled wig and heavy-skirted coat. The light seemed to rise from the gold braid upon it, diffusing into a corona around him.

This man was a stranger, and yet strangely familiar. He looked around the room and sighed again. He glanced across at Joseph and gave a pitying shake of his head. ‘When I was summoned here, I must admit I expected better. These are not the surroundings to which I am accustomed. But I suppose if there is no problem, then there is no need …’ The Cavalier gave another heavy sigh.

‘Just what do you mean by that?’ snapped Joseph, rubbing his eyes. ‘I grew up in a room not unlike this one, and …’

As a matter of fact he’d grown up in a room exactly like this one. Its appearance was softened somewhat, by the glow of the phantom and by his own fading memories, but it was the same room. It was where he’d felt the hunger that plagued him now, which was still as sharp and real as ever it had been.

‘I belong at the manor and have been sent to fetch you back to it,’ the man said bluntly. ‘Although even that is no treat. For I must tell you the place under your governance is not as nice as it once was.’

‘Now, see here,’ Joseph said, sitting up in his bed only to realise that it was not the thing he’d lain down on but a narrow bunk, with a rush mattress and thin blankets that could not keep the cold from his feet. ‘You need not take me back, for I did not go anywhere. I am still there, fast asleep and dreaming.’ This time he gave himself a hard pinch on the back of the hand, not caring if the spirit before him saw it.

‘I was told that this had been explained to you. Three visitors would come. We would show you your errors. You would learn or not learn, as was your nature …’ He droned in an uninterested way that said he did not care what Joseph learned, so long as he did it quickly and with as little bother as possible.

Joseph glared at the spirit, annoyed that it was still before him. ‘I was told by my father. Who is dead and therefore should not be telling me anything. While he said there would be three, he did not say three of what. If there was any truth in it he might as well have said four, thus counting himself.’

‘Do not think you can reason like a Jesuit to get yourself out of a situation that you yourself have created.’ The Cavalier sighed again, and flicked a lace handkerchief in front of his nose as though offended by the stench of such humble surroundings. ‘Be silent and I will explain. And then we might be done with this vision and go back to the house.’

‘But you are not real,’ Joseph argued. It was most annoying to be lectured at by one’s own imagination. And then he placed the identity of the thing sitting before him. ‘You are Sir Cedric Clairemont, and nothing more than a portrait hanging in the gallery on the second floor. This room is the place where I was born. I am blending memories in a dream.’

Sir Cedric gave a resigned glare in his direction, and sighed again as though facing a difficult child. ‘Let me put this plainly, so that you might understand it. I would say I am as real as you, but that would lack truth. I was real. Now I am a spirit, as is your father. As are the two that will come after. By the end of it you will know where you were, where you are and what you will become.’

‘I know all these things for myself, without your help. I will not be frightened into a change of plans by some notion created out of a second helping of trifle after a roast pork dinner.’

‘Touch me,’ commanded the spirit.

He did look almost real enough to touch, and just the same as he did in his portrait. But from what memory had Joseph created the man’s voice, which was a slightly nasal tenor? Or his mannerisms as he swaggered forwards with his stick and looked down at Joseph with amused superiority? This man was not some ghost from a painting, but so real that he felt he could reach out and …

Joseph drew his hand back quickly, suddenly aware of the gesture he’d been making—which had looked almost like supplication.

The ghost stared at him with impatience. Then he brought the swagger stick down upon Joseph’s head with a thud.

‘Ow!’

‘Is that real enough for you, Stratford? Or must I hit you again? Now, get out of the bed and take my hand—or I will give you a thumping you will remember in the morning.’

The idea was ludicrous. It was one thing to have a vivid dream. Quite another for that nightmare to fetch you a knock to the nob then demand that you get out of bed and walk into it.

‘Certainly not.’ Joseph rubbed at the spot where he’d been struck. ‘Raise that stick to me again and, dream or not, I will answer you blow for blow.’

Sir Cedric smiled ironically. ‘Very well, then. If you wish to remain here I can show you images of your childhood. Although why you would wish to see them, I am unsure. They are most unpleasant.’

As though a candle had been lit, a corner of the room brightened and Joseph felt increasing dread. It was the corner that had held the loom.

‘Tighten the warp.’ He heard the slap and felt the impact of it on the side of his head, even though it had landed some many years before on the ear of the young boy who sat there.

‘S … sorry, Father.’ The young Joseph fumbled with the shuttle.

The man who stood over him could barely contain his impatience. ‘Sorry will not do when there is an order as big as this one. I cannot work the night through to finish it. You must do your share. Sloppy work that must be unravelled again the next day is no help at all. It is worse than useless. Not only must I do my own part, I must stand over you and see to it that you do yours. You are worse than useless.’