A Shimmer in the Night Page 3

  “Fair enough.” He leaned back in his seat, tipping his gaze towards the ceiling. “But let me wager a guess: your father took your mother as his mistress, and she became pregnant with you. How did your father react to that?”

  “I wish I knew.” Or maybe I didn’t. Tricky question, that. “He has no interest in me; I’ve never even seen him beyond a few photos Mother has. But he’s funded almost everything Mother could want, and he paid for all of my schooling.”

  “He cared about your education?”

  “Perhaps. Or he simply wanted me out of the house so I wasn’t in the way when he wanted to call on Mother.” That was the more likely answer. He never visited when I was there, after all.

  Alexander heaved a sigh, silent for a while as he tapped the toe of his shoe upon the floor. “That’s… You know, I’m not even certain what to call it. Rough? Unfortunate?” He looked at me. “I suppose I ought to ask you how you feel about it before making assumptions.”

  The impossibly soft look on his face made me smile. “It is what it is. The way of the world, hm? My only concern is for Mother. She makes do with London, but I see the far-away look in her eyes and I know she dreams of returning home. I think she would like you, you know. I think you would like her, too.”

  “She’s raised a son like you, so I should think her to be a woman I would enjoy meeting.” His mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile and it made my heart do odd things, a pitter-patter in my chest that had heat rushing to my cheeks as I looked away.

  “Yes, well. What about you? What is your family like?”

  “Plentiful,” he laughed. “Friendly sorts. Hard-working.”

  I shut the book in my lap. “You have siblings, don’t you? Sisters?”

  “Five of them! Each more obnoxious than the next.” Despite that, the warmth in his voice was obvious. I’d latched onto any little detail Alexander had spoken over the last few months, and never had I seen him speak of his family with anything less than utter admiration.

  “A house full of women. They all adore you, no doubt.”

  “Love driving me mad, anyway,” he answered with a grin.

  “And that’s why you drive the rest of us mad in return, is it?”

  Alexander made a show of fluttering his lashes. “Me? I’m the very definition of sweet, Benji.”

  It had been awhile since he’d begun to call me by my given name, but that moment, that nickname he bestowed upon me, made my heart skip a beat. I was still working on not referring to him by his family name. “Oh, I didn’t say that you weren’t. You’re irresistibly sweet, in fact, but insufferable. Particularly when you and Frances get going with one another.”

  “Insufferable! How am I insufferable?”

  “Your horrid jokes, for instance.” Nevermind that I always laughed at them.

  The look he cast me was one of mock hurt. “You think my jokes are horrid?”

  I rocked forward up and out of my chair, pointing at him with the book as I stepped to the bookshelf. “You know that look doesn’t work on me. And yes, they’re terrible. Frances’ puns are just as bad.”

  His gaze dropped. “I see.”

  Even as I placed the book upon the shelf, his dejected look tugged at my heart. “Oh, come now, don’t do that.”

  But that expression remained. “No, it’s all right. I understand.”

  Uncertainty flickered in the back of my mind. Surely, I hadn’t actually hurt his feelings, had I? Immediately, I knelt before Alexander’s chair, hands resting upon his knees. “No, no, Preston. I didn’t mean it. I was only teasing.”

  He let out a sniff, but he couldn’t contain the grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

  My face scrunched up into a pout. I slapped lightly at his leg and pulled back to stand. “See? Insufferable.”

  “I think you adore me.” He laughed and reached for my hands. I allowed myself to be caught because, really, any excuse to let him touch me was a good one.

  “Do I?”

  “One hundred and ten percent.”

  Lord, those smiles of his made me a complete wreck. I swallowed hard. “What makes you so certain?”

  “Because you’d not put up with me otherwise.”

  He had me there. Entirely out of reflex and without thought, I pulled one of my hands free from his and lifted it, fingers ghosting against his cheek. Rather than draw back or startle at the touch, Preston’s smile softened into something less playful and more curious, almost appraising. The intimacy of that expression made it difficult to breathe.

  All too quickly, I realised what I was doing and pulled away. “It’s getting late. I should get some rest.”

  He watched me go, a laugh catching in his throat when I nearly slammed face-first into the door-frame because I was too busy stealing looks back at him.

  “Good night, Benji.”

  Mother is—was—an organised woman, a trait I inherited from her. Her photographs, although few, are each dated and labelled. She took me to a local studio every single year to have our picture taken together. As a child, I found it an annoyance, sitting still for so long. Now I have never been more appreciative of my patience and Mother’s insistence, because when I look at these snapshots and see Mother’s arm around my shoulders or her hand in mine, I can conjure the memories to the forefront of my mind and try to recall the way she felt, and the sound of her voice.

  Along with the pictures, Mother has ledgers. Journals. Not diaries, per se. They’re full of anecdotes and stories she seems to have written over the years as they came to her. I’m unsure if Father came across these, if he got far enough in going through her things to have the chance. They’re written in Mandarin anyway; he’d not have been able to read them. Which is a good thing because he shouldn’t be privy to such stories. I know she did not share them with him aloud.

  Unfortunately, it means I’m having a difficult time reading them, as well. I can make out the gist, but if I want to know the full extent of what lies within these books, I’ll need to find someone to read and possibly translate. There is no shortage of literate Chinese men and women in Limehouse, but it means finding someone I trust to read her personal words and someone who would care enough to do it for me. That list of people is quite small.

  Aside from her personal effects, Mother’s den used to contain contracts and bills of sales for many of her more luxurious purchases. The artwork in particular. Those papers are gone now. Father undoubtedly handed them over to the appraisers…which means any hope I had of sneaking them out first has vanished. I have half a mind to do so anyway, or to destroy them just to avoid Father getting anything from them, but I can’t bear to entertain the idea of ruining something Mother loved so dearly.

  I spend all night going through these things. With the house so silent and only the candles to light my way, I find myself thinking back to Whisperwood. Never would I have dared to wander about in the dark, knowing what was out there. But here, in the comfort of my own home, I find myself searching the shadows in hopes of seeing Mother’s face amongst them. Aside from digging up Nicholas Mordaunt’s grave over a year ago, I’ve never actively sought out a spirit.

  It would be horrible, really, to encounter Mother in such a fashion. The spirits I’ve met over the years have hardly been friendly or up for conversing. What good would it do me? Should I have an interest in communicating with the dead, Preston’s Aunt Eleanor might be a better option. I wonder if she could do it. I wonder if I would regret it.

  Only in the early hours of morning do I pause in my work to pen a letter to Preston. The words don’t come as easily as they normally would; never have I had an issue thinking of what to write to him. I could go on for pages about nothing of importance and now, when I have so much to say…

  My heart aches. Please come. I need you.

  I crumple the parchment and grab another.

/>   Mother has passed. Her funeral is on the seventh, in two days’ time. I suspect it would be difficult for you to be here in time, so please do not worry yourself over making the trip because I know that you would in a heartbeat and the thought alone means much to me.

  I am sorry our time together was disrupted. Please give my love and affection to your family, and especially your sister, as I am very regretful about missing her birthday. Unfortunately, I have things to tend to here for the indefinite future.

  I post it in hopes it will go out with the first morning delivery. With any luck, it will reach him by this time tomorrow and despite my insistence that he needn’t be here for the funeral, it would be a bald-faced lie to say that I don’t hope he comes anyway. The trip itself is not a long one, merely a matter of how swiftly the post reaches him.

  The men from yesterday left late the previous evening, and since then, I’ve puttered around the house, the belongings and furniture I’ve grown up with picked half-clean as if by vultures. From my own room, I drag out my school trunk and empty it of my old uniforms and books that I will no longer need. Instead, I fill it with Mother’s things. The photos and notebooks, a few smaller art pieces that will comfortably fit. I take one of her favourite dresses, although I haven’t a clue what to do with it, but the idea of anyone else wearing it makes me feel unbearably ill.

  Mostly, I take the authentic Chinese objects she cherished so much. A few glazed cups and bowls, some chopsticks she used often when preparing traditional meals. I take several of her favourite books, and delicately wrap my own preferred porcelain items, quietly praying that they’ll not be broken during transport. The intricately carved elm wood chairs and table from the ground floor parlour have been taken already. They would hardly fit into the trunk anyway, but I lament their loss already. No Englishman or woman is going to truly appreciate them in his home.

  But of all her things, the one I hope to find the most—a silver and jade necklace—appears to be missing. The rest of her jewellery is present, but that lone necklace is not in its place. Surely, Father wouldn’t have taken that lone item and left the rest. It’s by far her most valuable, true, but I cannot imagine he would have had any idea of what he was looking at. I take a few deep breaths to steady my nerves. I’ll come across it somewhere.

  Once the sun has risen, I sit in the middle of the parlour floor where chairs used to be, staring out the tall windows whose curtains I’ve thrown open wide to let in the gloomy London light. It’s overcast and raining. It suits my mood well.

  I don’t know if I doze off or if my grief simply causes me to process things around me slower, but I don’t notice the back door of the house has opened and someone has entered before the shadow of a person falls directly across my line of vision.

  “Master Benjamin?”

  I turn slightly to see Maddie in the parlour doorway, and my chest pinches tight. By the time I rise to my feet, she’s crossed the room and put her arms around me tightly. I hadn’t realised just how badly I wanted to be hugged. Even if it’s Mother or Preston’s arms I’m craving, it’s still familiarity. I hug her back, because I know I’m not the only person hurting right now.

  “Maddie, are you well?”

  She draws back, swiping at her eyes and managing a tight smile. Seeing as I’ve not bothered to wear my tie or coat today, she has only the collar of my shirt to smooth her fingers over before clasping her hands before herself. “Oh, dear boy. Are you really asking me that when you’ve just lost your mother?”

  I try to smile but the effort is in vain. “You were here with her, I presume.”

  Maddie bows her head into a nod, the pain evident in her large brown eyes. “I was.”

  “Until the end?”

  “Until the end,” she assures quietly, and the twist of her mouth is wry and bitter. “I stayed until Mr. Hale arrived and ordered me out. I tried to tell him I wished to wait for you, but he said he had no need for a woman getting underfoot while he dealt with arrangements. Lord, had I known this is what he meant by ‘handling’ things…” She looks around the room, noting everything out of place and gone.

  My insides twist. This anger is beginning to feel familiar to me already. I don’t like it. “I’m so sorry, Maddie. I should have been here.”

  “Hush now. You look exhausted, and I suppose you’ve not eaten, have you?”

  I put up no resistance as she ushers me into the dining room and sits me down. There isn’t much food in the house, she says, but she insists I need to eat and look after myself.

  Before she leaves for the kitchen, however, she pauses, slipping an envelope from her dress pocket, which she places upon the table before me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  She runs a hand over my hair fondly. “Just give it a read.”

  Left in the silence again with a letter staring up at me, I really needn’t have asked what this is. My name is written in Mother’s familiar writing across the front, and it twists something inside of me to slide the letter from within and see it dated only a few days after I left to see Preston.

  My dearest Benjamin,

  This is not the first time I’ve fallen ill over the years. However, it is obviously the last if you are reading these words now. I’ve instructed Maddie to deliver this to you to ensure you receive it and so it does not fall into the wrong hands. I know deaths can bring out the worst in a person.

  I have little that truly belongs to me. I have no money to leave you, no possessions that I think your father will not wish to repossess. I’ve no family that I know of to take you in. For that, I am sorry. I am sorry what I could offer you growing up was what charity was bestowed upon us from a man who would not even look upon your face. I wanted more for you.

  What I hope I have been able to do is to leave a similar letter for your father with words that will sway him into helping us one last time. I’ve requested he find you employment and to ensure you find yourself settled into a marriage that will be both beneficial and fulfilling for you. Every woman who meets you adores you! You should make any of them a wonderful husband. And your work ethic has never been anything but flawless; your father would have no complaints to see how quickly you learn and that you would make him proud in any task he may put you to. My wish for you is to take these opportunities and run with them. Make them your own.

  Never had I intended to leave you so young, and during a time in your life when I feel you most need guidance. But you are a bright boy with a good head on your shoulders…and I anticipate you shall have the whole wide world at your feet once you find steady ground.

  Please forgive me my transgressions and for denying us both a chance to say good-bye. The one thing I needed for myself during this difficult time was to have my last image of you be your smile and not your tears.

  You are my world, Benjamin. Everything was worth it for you.

  Lovingly yours,

  Mum

  A single tear hits the paper, followed by a second and a third. I shove the letter away from me, burying the heels of my hands into my eyes and focusing on breathing. I have no time for tears right now. There’s too much to do, too much for me to think of and to figure out.

  But what stands out clear as day are Mother’s wishes for me, what she wanted to see of me. These so-called gifts of Father’s were her idea, and to turn them down…that would not only be a slight to Father, but to her as well.

  I have never let my mother down before, and I’m not certain I can start now.

  By the day of the funeral, I’ve not yet heard word from Preston. Maddie stays at the house with me as much as she’s able, for which I’m eternally grateful. When Father’s appraisers and movers return, her presence is a welcome one. Perhaps misery loves company. I feel horrible I’ve no money with which to pay her, but I do encourage her to take some of the remaining silver and some of Mother’s jewellery before it, too, gets cleared
out. She’s free to keep it or to sell it as she pleases. I think it’s what Mother would have wanted.

  The morning of the funeral, I dress in my finest clothes. When we purchased the outfit a year ago, Mother ensured we had it tailored just a tiny bit too large to allow for growth. Now, the sleeves fall just where they should, and the waistcoat fits comfortably. It’s a bittersweet moment, standing before the mirror and studying myself, because Mother isn’t here to see that it finally fits properly. Maddie fusses with my neckwear and hair. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her dress so finely, but she looks lovely and attempts to keep a smile on her face for my sake.

  The funeral itself is of no consequence. Naturally, Father spared no expense. Mother is interred at a lovely spot near a towering oak tree in a garden cemetery. The plot alone would have cost a small fortune. In a place like London, where the population is booming and grave space is growing scarce, it is not unheard of for the city to wait ten, fifteen years, and exhume a body to re-sell the space, or to simply stack the coffins. That isn’t the case in an expensive location such as this…yet. But what happens when they, too, run out of room?

  I push the thought from my mind, unable to stomach it. Not today.

  Maddie keeps by my side, arm linked with mine. The vicar says his pretty words and those in attendance—some familiar faces, some not—weep and bow their heads, and I feel as though I’m horribly displaced from this moment in time. I seem to have no tears to shed. For everyone who comes to take my hand and give their condolences, I can only offer them a feigned smile in return and a polite thank you.

  Unsurprisingly, Father does not come.

  Not that I’d expected him to. Wouldn’t that be scandalous? No doubt he’s had to pay for these arrangements carefully and with the utmost discretion. I suppose he’s used to such practises by now.

  As people begin to depart, I linger near the graveside, unwilling to abandon it just yet. Maddie handles many of the farewells to the other attendees, and when she returns to my side, we stand in silence awhile until she says, “I’ll be departing for my sister’s in the morning.”