Lonely is the Ghost

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

I followed and listened in wonder. She had explained little, and her assumption that I knew some of what had changed due to previous owners of the house was barely correct. Indeed few of the recent owners had even taken up occupancy. The last thing I had seen installed was electric wiring and I had no idea what that was for.

She led me to the kitchen and I marvelled once more at the strange machines installed around the room. What were they? She stopped at what she called a dish washer, though I could see no hands.

I listened to her explanation in puzzlement. I had learned a little about mechanisms of course, and understood that some had patented some very odd machines - a self-tipping hat was still a source of hilarity for me. But this?

"There is some kind of pump which ejects water into the box and, I presume some hidden mechanical hands that do the washing?"

I cursed as I realized she had been unable to hear me. Looking at her I saw her turn and wondered if she had done this time, but she faced a different direction than the one in which I stood. Sighing I looked for a pad and paper.

The machine hummed, startling me with its monotone music. I blinked and started at it for several seconds listening to the sounds from withing. It played music too? If so it was a rather poor musician.

After waiting a few more seconds I took up a pen and wrote.

I assume that the musical tone is to entertain you while you wait for the machine to finish its task? But is it possible to make it play something more interesting than that strange monotone?

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Musical tone. Hillary chuckled, though at herself more than at Sir Francis as she listened to the sound of the dishwasher as if hearing it for the first time. Not exactly a top forty tune, but there was a soothing sort of harmony in its droning hum.

"Merely the sound of the motor that powers it, Sir Francis. Now if you'd like music... " She grinned and spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the study where she kept her CD player.

She had music of all types, from classical to classic rock and everything in between. Thinking she could ease him through the ages over time, Hillary walked over to the shelves of CD's and pulled one out. This was more his "type", she thought -- though wouldn't it be a hoot if he ended up liking Momus or something.

"This," Hillary said as she opened the jewel case and indicated the machine in front of her. "is a CD player -- CD meaning "compact disc". See?" Turning around with her back to the shelves, she held the thin plastic disc out in front of her wishing yet again that she knew where he was standing. The explaining of modern gadgetry that he wanted to learn about wasn't going to be easy. Now she knew why mother's always said "because" when asked a question.

"Okay, Sir Francis. What this thingie does is, basically, send a light beam called a laser, onto the surface of this disc and then reflects back the information on it to an eye, which in turn translates it within the machine and plays back the data it has found. In a nutshell, you understand. I am better at just turning it on and making it go." As if to prove her point, Hillary pressed the button that ejected the tray and carefully placed the disc inside before sending it back.

Within seconds, the haunting strains of a viola da gamba sonata by Bach began to emanate from the speakers on the top shelf. "Much better than the piano forte, don't you think?"

 

[BadForm]

"By all the saints and demons of hell!"

I almost leapt through the ceiling in surprise. A thin metallic plate, an unseen beam of light, a hidden eye, and a room full of sound and reverberation; it was enough to drive a scientific man to religion. I slowly calmed myself, focussing on Hillary's lack of apparent reaction. This was safe. Peculiar, startling, but safe. The music seemed strange, perfect beyond that which could be from true instruments. It was different than being in a concert hall... better in some ways, worse in others. But overall it was a very pleasant experience. Humming silently I reached for the pen once more.

Cleanliness from a box? Music from the very air itself? Mechanical eyes and arms? Why my dear lady, what other surprises do you have in store for me?

I smiled as a ridiculous tease crossed my mind.

"Why you will be saying the strange object in the old fireplace grants heat and the box held within the window grants coolness!"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary shot a look of distaste toward the gas-converted fireplace. It was on her "list of to-do's", and quite possibly one of the more stupid renovations done by previous owners. "Let's skip that, shall we? I far prefer a real fire, but yes, Sir Francis, that's exactly what that... contraption does. As for the other... You're quite right about that also, though I'm not sure I can explain it as well."

Walking over the the window unit, she once again felt the awkwardness of not knowing exactly where he was. "This is called an air conditioner. Basically, there's gas inside tubes that is first compressed then heated and condensed to liquid that cools as it passes through... something. Maybe a valve? I never said I was Miss Fix-it," she added with a sigh before continuing -- lamely, she thought.

"A fan blows the cold air into a room at the same time a different fan draws the hot air out. It's sort of like an electronic ice box -- but without the chunk of ice. The refrigerator in the kitchen works on the same principle, just that the cool air is enclosed to keep the food in it fresh."

Hillary turned the knob to on and the fan to high to demonstrate. What else could she do? "It will come warm at first," she said. "But you'll see as it runs a few minutes that the air will be quite cold."

Placing her own hand over the blower, she asked aloud something she had been wondering silently, "Can you feel, Sir Francis?"

 

[BadForm]

I listened with growing fascination. What else did the world have to offer? And given all that the modern world offered, what left for modern man... or even woman... to struggle with? Then she asked a question that stung.

"Can you feel , Sir Francis?"

Yes, I could feel. In the way she meant, I could feel or else I could not move things. I still had no truly fine manipulation though. So feelings were blunted. I was working hard to overcome my failings. But I could feel in a much more intense way...

I reached for the pen thinking of what to write. I stopped. I could touch things and move them. That meant I could at least interact to a minor extent with Hilary. I grabbed the pen and wrote one line.

I can feel

Before she spoke a response I reached for her. I had no idea how my touch would feel to a living person. I grasped her hands softly and saw her shudder, saw her face contort in what? Fear? Revulsion? Mere suprise?

Struggling to control my manipulation of her body and hoping she complied I uncurled her fingers and touched the tips one by one.

I pushed up under her hands, glad to see her nervous acceptance of the manipulation. I placed her hands against her temples then moved them again and lay them over her bosom.

I grabbed the pen again.

Yes, I can feel.

Would she understand the many ways I was indicating? I could only hope my laying of her hands over her breast would not appear to be a sexual gesture.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary knew the moment Sir Francis touched her. The sudden flash of heat burned as though she were standing too close to a blazing fire followed by a light sheen of sweat breaking out over her skin as it cooled. Both sensations, gone just as quickly as they occurred, left only the impression of his hands on hers. Not unlike the weightlessness of an old familiar sweater, they were there in a comforting way without feeling burdensome.

She held her breath as he lifted her hands and placed them against her temples and then over her breasts. No! Over her heart. Her eyes searched the tablet hungrily for his words when she felt his touch retreat and saw the pen moving quickly across the paper. Yes, I can feel is what he had written, and Hillary knew exactly what he meant.

"I understand," she said quietly. "You can feel in your head and in your heart as well as by touch... " Hillary cut the tail end of her thought short leaving the question of whether he could feel "her" touch even if she could not exactly "touch" him dangling unasked between them.

There must be a way, though she wasn't sure why it had suddenly become so important. "Martha will help. She will know."

Suddenly Sir Francis was scribbling again and Hillary realized with chagrin that she'd spoken aloud.

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis

When I was alive, I felt that feeling was a purely physical thing. The cold vibration of a piano white under a finger, the gentle throb of a lady's kiss...

How could he say it? He wasn't even sure what it was he wanted to say. He was certainly sure it was not what a gentleman said. Not aloud... although "saying it aloud" was a ridiculous statement.

When my Emily left me, I found how the heart and could feel. A poison. A sickly pain that made me yearn for the death that came in time...

And when I died, when the pain passed to tedium, then I learned to feel with my mind. A thought, vibrant and sensual or deathly and pained by its turn, could be something to feel more solidly than the Earth itself.

He read the words he had written and shook his head. Then, with one stroke as swift as his growing ability to control the physical world would allow, he drew a line through it all.

Slowly then, the pen shook over the page.

Forgive me, that was too much. I should not speak so.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Suddenly, somehow, Hillary knew that she was alone in the room, though she called out anyway. "Sir Francis?" The pen lay still where he had dropped it, the words he had written and crossed through, a burning testimony of the despair he'd long ago abandoned himself to.

"Martha!" she called, picking up the papers he'd written on and running headlong toward the kitchen and the housekeeper's room.

She drew up short, almost bumping into the elderly woman as she skidded into the kitchen. Martha was pouring out two cups of tea and had already arranged a small dish of fresh-baked scones on the table. "I was waiting for you, Miss. You and Himself have been at it again, I see."

Hillary wasn't sure that she would ever get used to the idea that Martha seemed to know everything that happened in the Manor, though it no longer surprised her as much as it had at first. "I... " she began slowly as she sank into a chair, curling her hands around the cup to warm them.

"You'll be wanting to know how you can see Himself," Martha commented, followed by a low, arthritic groan as she took the chair opposite. "Everyone has the gift, child. All are not able to use it in the way you would like."

Martha took a sip as Hillary leaned forward on her arms, listening intently. "How I like?"

"You've come to favor him, methinks. In that way." Martha nodded knowingly making the younger woman blush. Yes, Martha was blunt, if nothing else. Hillary wanted to say "Nonsense!" but she knew that it would only be a bluff. Both she and Martha knew otherwise.

"Then how... "

"I don't see as it can happen in the now, young miss. But perhaps there is a way... Perhaps, mind. And only if Himself agrees. Ahh... and speak of the devil." Martha was up and pouring a third cup for their evanescent companion.

"Aye. We were just having a word about you, M'Lord. As if you dinna know it," Martha chuckled and winked in the direction of the third chair as Hillary felt the flush that had already spread across her face deepen.

"She's a fine one, this. A proper lady," the old woman continued with a nod in her direction. "And she'd be wanting to see your Lordship. Proper like."

The housekeeper tilted her head as if listening to a tirade quite unpleasant, straightening her shoulders and jutting out her chin defiantly. "Now, now. We'll have none of that sort of talk, Lord or no Lord. Now hush while I tell you what I've got on my mind."

Another of the ever-present pads was getting used as Hillary noted the pen fairly flying over the paper. "Please, Sir Francis. At least hear Martha out before you go and... go off again." She was afraid that he would disappear before Martha had her say and that... Well... She needed him to hear this. Even if she had to say it herself.

"You well know that I would like to be able to see you, Sir Francis. To speak aloud with you. To... " She stopped as the pen ceased moving and fell back on the table, but before she could reach for the pad, Martha had begun.

"There is a way," she said brusquely. "But you have to approve." Martha leaned in closer to the chair where Sir Francis sat and whispered loudly. "You'd be a fool not to."

Hillary found that she was holding her breath in anticipation. Could it really be possible? It must be if Martha said... "How?" she whispered.

"In dreams, child. Sir Francis knows. In the dreaming time all things are possible."

She wanted to snort. Dreams! That would be no better than now. There would still be no talking, no... touching. Besides, he would never agree to anything that might even remotely make him happy. Hillary sighed.

"Himself is not sure, but he seems willing, Miss. Now it is up to you to say aye or nay. Which is it?"

Hillary gulped. "Aye. I mean YES. I mean... Please?"

Martha nodded and began, explaining everything that must be done and known for this to succeed. Hillary was dubious, but she wanted this more than she had ever wanted anything else. "When?"

"We begin on the morrow. Now off to bed with ya, Himself and I have some business to attend to first."

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis Chichester

Hillary went to bed. The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock and the strange whirring of the new scientific devices that she had brought into the house. That and the occassional chink as Martha lay down her cup between sips of tea. It was strange, but she was perhaps the first person Sir Francis had ever been afraid of - or if not afraid, in awe.

"Now, 'sir'" the apostrophes dropped into place as caustically as if they were acid. "It is time that we had a little discussion."

Sir Francis drew his ghostly form up to interrupt, pulling on the might of his ancestry to put the woman in her place.

"Yes, and I think we've had enough of that!"

He deflated under the piercing gaze.

"Who do you think you are to keep running off as soon as little Hilary dares try to communicate with you openly?"

"I am Sir Francis Chichester..." his voice was unheard by any but Martha, "the lord of this manor!"

She took another sip of tea. "You were. You were the lord of the manor, sir, and I will not deny that one so strong as your good self will ever be so in some ways. But Sir Francis, time has moved on. This is her place as much as yours now... and it is time you showed the young ma'am the respect she deserves!"

Sir Francis stared at her in shock.

"And who is Sir Francis anyhow?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean just what I say... who IS Sir Francis? Is he the noble and strong lord you seem to feel the need to keep stating is so... or is he a man so afraid of feeling good that he barely dare touch a woman he loves?"

Were it possible for a ghost to blush, Sir Francis would have.

"Oh yes, my lord, I know all about you. And about your young Alice as was. Your story passed down through the ladies in my family so to speak. I know how she tried to woo you with all her womanly ways and all you ever dare do was kiss her!"

"What? But I was concerned for her honor!"

"Honor? Honor? Bah! Men!" Martha sucked in a breath of air angrily. "It's only ever one thing with you men isn't it? One thing or the other? Either you have no care for a woman's feelings and expect her to behave as if she were a street walking hussy... or you 'value her honor' so highly that you treat her as though she were a mere statue... Besides, I still hold that it is more concern for your own deservingness that stopped you. What is it you feel you have done that is so dark that you can never enjoy yourself? This started before your Alice passed, I know it..."

Sir Francis paced the room. It was more from habit than need. "That, Winifred... I am sorry, I mean Martha... you truly are like your ancester you know... is something only I may ever know."

"Fine," Martha lay down her cup and filled the dishwasher. "Then at least consider this. Allow Hillary to decide what her honor is worth to her. So long as you treat her with care and love, you will not betray her. Now, I am to bed. I will discuss plans for the future with Hillary on the morrow."

<OOC> Hope this is ok, wasn't sure exactly where to go.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Hillary showered and got ready for bed, though sleep eluded her and she found herself staring at the wedding gown Sir Francis had placed in her room when she'd first come to the Manor. Too lovely to hide away in the cedar chest it was redolent of, she had had it cleaned and it was now on display in her bedroom, the latest apparel for a dressmaker's form of the same period.

"We begin on the morrow." Martha's words had been spoken decisively, brooking no room for argument and none for failure. Whatever she had in mind would be successful. There seemed to be no doubt in that fact, so any uncertainties Hillary Payton was feeling were hers alone.

She'd always been considered a bit eccentric by both family and acquaintances... she didn't really have "friends". Always at someone's beck and call as a young girl, her time now seemed too valuable to waste on frivolities not of her own choosing. She'd once overheard a whispered conversation between two elderly aunts discussing poor Hillary's state of mind. In a way, that was coming back now to haunt her -- in more ways than one.

How sane was a person who longed for the companionship (and maybe more) of someone she couldn't even see? She would be grist for the psychiatric mill, certain to keep at least one well fed, clothed and housed for many years to come if any of this got out. It's not too late to back out, she cautioned herself. But did she want to? Hillary knew the answer to that was a resounding "no". She had to see. She had to know.

*******

"Your tea, Miss."

She blinked as the draperies were pulled back, admitting the full glare of a noonday sun. It seemed like she had only just fallen asleep. "You didn't have to," she said to Martha who was pouring out only two cups -- Sir Francis must not be about. "What time is it?"

"Nigh on one. You've slept long enough. There are things need discussing now between us."

Hillary nodded and wrapped her hands around the cup, drawing the warmth from it into the sudden chill of her body. "I'm ready."

Martha settled herself in the overstuffed chair situated beside the bed and looked Hillary straight in the eye. "I had a long talk with Himself. He's agreeable in a strange sort of way, but the real question is: Are you sure?"

"Martha," she began slowly, as if measuring every word. "If you asked me why, I couldn't tell you. Sure? I am. Even if it doesn't work. I am quite sure."

The elderly woman's mouth twisted wryly as if the mere thought of failure was completely beyond her ken. "Very well. Then we will begin."

If not for Martha's prodding, Hillary would not have touched a bite of the breakfast that sat on the bedtray or even bothered to sip at her tea. Talk of links and connections and following golden threads that wasn't dissimilar to myths of minotaurs and mazes. The dress would play a part in the journey, Martha explained. She was merely the guide. And Sir Francis would be the destination.

All Hillary had to do was trust. Trust was everything. "Can you do it, beanchadh? Will you trust me?"

Gods help her, she didn't understand. But trust, she could. She trusted Martha Duffy more than she had ever trusted anyone else in her life before now.

 

[BadForm]

Sir Francis

Sir Francis fretted. Martha had explained the process to him, but for all her mystical descriptions had been understandable she might as well not have bothered. It was the dress. Apparently, 'the thread of the universe that dwells within the lover's heart' was so strong in that dress that Hillary could use it to 'return to Sir Francis side.' What all of that meant was beyond him. He didn't even know whether it would put her in danger, and when Martha had been asked her words had been evasive.

Sir Francis paced, or drifted, through the halls as he waited for the allotted time. He had so many questions. What exactly would happen? What did she mean 'the lover's heart'? That dress had belonged to Emily. Was the ghost of Emily going to enter Hillary's body? He hoped not, that would be... ungovernably strange. Would she be hurt? What would she think of him when she could see him? And what did 'return to Sir Francis' mean? All of these questions, Martha had managed to avoid answering directly. Now, as the time drew closer, Sir Francis drew more worried.

Downstairs, there was the sound of plates being washed. Breakfast was over and that meant that, in a few minutes, something was going to happen. He had to do something. What he had to do he didn't know. As much of him wanted to save Hillary from heartache as wanted to be with her. He wasn't worthy of her attentions, not truly. She was a sweet maid, a strong woman and a delightful companion. She was as an angel... but then, so had Emily been he had thought.

Wrought up in nervous tension he finally let himself drop through the floor to the kitchen. He would stop this from happening - it wasn't right that such a one be hurt.

"I FORBID THIS!" He cried.

His cry met an empty room. Both women had left. He was too late.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"There now!" Martha announced, drying her hands on the dish towel and hanging it back up. "Done. And done. Now it's time."

"Now? I thought it wasn't going to happen until tonight?"

"Well some things are better done sooner rather than later, child. And this is one of them. Now upstairs with you. I'll be along in a minute." Martha watched the young woman leave the kitchen and listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs before entering her own room where she retrieved an item she'd placed on her dresser just for this occasion. Placing it into her pocket, she went to join her charge.

Martha didn't see Hillary at first, but the sound of water running in the shower soon indicated her whereabouts. "I'm here, Miss," she announced.

"I'll be right out!"

In the meantime, Martha busied herself setting out some intimate apparel for her charge to wear, and, true to her word, Hillary didn't take but a minute or two more to emerge from the bathroom. Her skin, normally pale, too pale, she'd often chastened, was flushed and the lass was fairly glowing. Whether it was from the heat of the water or the excitement of what they had planned, Martha Duffy didn't care; but she did hope. All she wanted for the girl was happiness. And for Himself as well. Cussed curmudgeon that he was.

"Well then," she began. "Dry yourself off and then we'll get you dressed. I'll do up your hair for you when you're ready."

Hillary prattled nervously about anything and everything (except what would happen next) as she dressed, barely standing still while Martha took pains with her arthritic fingers to fasten the countless small pearl buttons on the back of the gown. "At last!" she announced when the last one had been tackled and defeated. "Now sit at your dressing table while I do your hair in the proper fashion of the time. And pull the back of the dress tight as you sit. It's won't look fitting if you're all creased and wrinkled."

She tried to get a look in the mirror before Martha began to rub her hair briskly with the towel she had wrapped around her head. "You'll get a look see soon enough once you're done. In the meantime... "

It wasn't long before Martha had finished, her fingers seeming to have limbered up with the exertion of button-fastening. "There!" she finally announced. "Just one more thing and then you can look."

Hillary felt the older woman fastening something around her neck and reached to feel it. "It were my great great great... oh enough of it. It were my gran's back in the day. It will help to keep you safe."

"Safe?" Hillary asked as she stood and walked to the full length mirror that stood in the far corner of her room. The answer, whether Martha had given one or not, would have gone unnoticed at any rate. Hillary's jaw dropped as she stared at her reflection. "How did you? Is that really... Oh, Martha!"

The housekeeper stood back and smiled approvingly. "Perfect. You are quite lovely, beanchadh."

Unable to restrain herself, Hillary hugged the older woman tightly and kissed her on both cheeks. "I don't know how you did it, but... And the necklace!" Her fingers traced over the fine gold filigree and settled on the stone that hung from it. Was it her imagination or was it warm? It almost felt alive somehow. No, just her imagination running wild. It will keep you safe, Martha had said. What did that mean? More imagination, she was sure. Wasn't it?

The expression on Martha's face turned deadly serious as she gazed into Hillary's eyes. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"More than anything."

"Well then. I suppose we should begin, but remember... the necklace. It will keep you safe."

Hillary started to ask from what only to find Martha's gnarled finger pressed against her lips while she was led to the front parlor. "Husheen. Remember how I taught you and just... concentrate."

Doing as she was told without further words, Hillary stood before the portrait of Sir Francis and closed her eyes. It was a fair likeness, Martha had said and a good thing, because other than this, Hillary didn't have any idea at all what the man looked like. Not that she cared...

"Concentrate, beanchadh! Picture the link... the golden chain that leads from him to you and back again. Follow it. Follow it until you... "

Martha's words began to fade as she obeyed. Following. Following. Following...

 

[Maid of Marvels]

In the dreaming time...

Disappointed, Hillary stood in the front parlor looking around. She hadn't gone anywhere! At least that's what she thought at first -- until the sound of music playing elsewhere began to carry into the room.

Opening the heavy double doors, she let herself out into the hall. It was milling with people, men and women dressed for a formal occasion; a ball, perhaps. Murmuring an "oh, brother" under her breath, Hillary wondered what she had gotten herself into. No one would know her, of course. What if the owner put her out? There was no certainty, at least in her mind, that Sir Francis was the current owner of Lakeside Manor and even less that he would recognize her. Cripes! Even her dress had changed!

No longer wearing the white satin and lace wedding gown, Hillary now saw that she was wearing something cream colored with a shoulder line so low she could barely raise her arms. She wore white kid gloves, but what she had on her feet was not visible under the layers upon layers of the broad skirt, each one scooped up at the sides and held in place with decorative flowers.

How did women manage? A vision of her skirts popping up in the air to reveal her undergarments as she sat brought a nervous laugh bubbling up to the surface. It also drew the attention from a similarly, though more decorously dressed, older woman who was scrutinizing her in a way that set bells and whistles off in Hillary's head.

A manservant standing just behind her held out a tray from which she took something. "Please forgive me," the woman said. "I must have missed your entrance. Unconscionable, really. Your dance card."

"Thank you," Hillary replied, taking the program and its attached pencil. Unwilling to further the conversation, she bobbed up and down clumsily in what was meant to be a curtsey and moved quickly away in the direction that most of the guests were going -- what could only be the ballroom.

Pausing at its entrance, Hillary took a deep breath and looked around. It was certainly her Manor, but there was a freshness, a vibrancy to everything here that no longer remained in her time. The chandeliers, missing in the "now", sparkled brightly overhead, the parquet flooring wasn't stained with use and age, nor was any of the wood for that matter. And it was filled with... people.

Uncertain of what to do next, she scanned the room for sight of Sir Francis among the dancing guests. Not seeing him and fearing that she, or at least her dress, was blocking others from going in, Hillary slowly made her way around the perimeter of the room. Perhaps, she thought, she could make it out to the gardens. If indeed they were there in this time.