Page 42 of Christmas Spirits at Honeywell House (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #3)

AGNES

It had been a long evening for Agnes. She’d barely been able to drag herself away from the drawing room window, staring out over the drive and praying for a glimpse of Mr Wyndham.

He’d been gone for what felt like hours, and she wasn’t sure she could bear his absence much longer. Where could he be?

She knew he couldn’t have visited the market because it closed at six o’clock and, according to the chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall it was past seven now.

He must have gone back to see Clara, she supposed. She understood from Lawrie that he’d been to Honeywell House earlier that day and that the two of them had got on famously.

Agnes had begged Lawrie for more information, but he’d been surprisingly cagey about the whole thing, telling her that, as far as he was aware, the meeting had gone well, and he was sure Aubrey would give her more details when he returned.

‘He’s hardly likely to tell me anything, is he?’ she’d wailed. ‘Mr Wyndham cannot even bring himself to look at me. I’ve ruined everything, Lawrie! Everything! What am I to do without him?’

Lawrie had assured her that he was quite certain she’d done no such thing, and that Aubrey had no intention of leaving her and she must keep a sense of proportion about these things.

‘He knows his duty to you and to Florence,’ he’d said as he shuffled into his sitting room after dinner. ‘He won’t abandon you, Agnes. He’s said as much. Now, do stop worrying and enjoy the rest of your evening. He’ll be home before you know it. Would you like to listen to some carols with me?’

But Agnes didn’t want to listen to carols, and even the sight of the Christmas trees and the decorations that now adorned the Hall couldn’t make her feel any better.

She didn’t want Mr Wyndham to stay with her because he knew his duty. What sort of an afterlife would that be for either of them? They had both, after all, had experience of such marriages whilst alive. She couldn’t wish it for either of them now.

She’d hoped – even believed – that he had affection for her.

Genuine affection. Oh, she knew she wasn’t a particularly attractive woman.

Cyril Ashcroft had made that abundantly clear to her on more than one occasion.

And, of course, there was the tiresome matter of her attire.

If she’d known she was about to expire and turn into a ghost, she would have made sure she was wearing something far more becoming than this wretched nightgown, bed jacket, stockings and cap.

Even so, sometimes, when Mr Wyndham looked at her, she’d dared to imagine that he had certain… feelings for her.

Indeed, in her most honest moments, she’d hoped that she’d imagined a gleam in his eye that could surely only mean one thing?

But, of course, she’d probably imagined it.

Why would a handsome man like Mr Wyndham look at her in such a manner?

She wished she knew about men’s urges , but sadly, despite being married to Cyril for eighteen years, she knew very little except roughness and – thankfully – brevity that had left her feeling nothing but used and wretched.

She had certainly never felt any desire for her legal husband and found her imaginings and desires for Mr Wyndham both unexpected and shameful.

When he’d kissed her on the mouth that day…

Oh goodness! Agnes could almost imagine herself blushing like a commoner at the thought of it.

As his hand had wandered to her breastbone she’d been so overcome with lust that she’d had to fake a headache and rush from the room.

What would Mr Wyndham have thought if she’d given in to her base impulses?

A gentleman like him would no doubt have been shocked to the core, and she might have put him off her for good.

But then, she thought sadly, as she gazed over the front lawns of Harling Hall, she’d done that anyway. Whatever affection Mr Wyndham had felt for her was surely over now? How could he ever forgive her for what she’d done? And quite rightly, so. She would never forgive herself, after all.

‘Mother?’

Florence had entered the room without her even noticing, and Agnes forced herself to smile as she moved away from the window and sat on the sofa, doing her very best to look as if everything was perfectly normal and not at all as if her entire world had just come crashing down.

‘Florence, dear. Where have you been?’

‘Just in the kitchen with Immi. Mia’s baking cookies,’ Florence said. She sat beside Agnes and peered up at her. ‘Are you all right? You look really sad.’

‘Sad! Good gracious, child, what have I got to be sad about?’ Agnes said, patting her daughter’s hand reassuringly. ‘It’s only nine days until Christmas, and do you know something? I swear to you that, today, when I was strolling in the grounds, I could smell snow in the air.’

Florence’s eyes widened in excitement. ‘Really? Proper snow? Are you sure?’

‘I’m certain of it. My sense of smell is uncannily accurate,’ Agnes assured her. ‘I expect we shall have snowfall tonight, or by tomorrow morning at the latest.’

‘Oh, wow! Wait till I tell Immi!’

‘Did you want me for something, dearest?’ Agnes asked. ‘You must have left the kitchen for some important reason, with the smell of cookies in the air.’

Florence hesitated, her little face falling. ‘Well… To be honest, Mother, I ’eard Brodie and Lawrie talking in the ’allway, and they said Poppa had gone out and ’e’d been gone ages and that ’e’d better get ’ome soon or you’ll go off your ’ead.’

Agnes pursed her lips. ‘Did they indeed?’

‘Is everyfink all right wiv you and Poppa?’ Florence asked. ‘It’s bin a bit funny in ’ere lately, and Poppa’s not ’is usual self.’

‘Everything’s perfectly fine,’ Agnes said, determined that, whatever catastrophe she’d brought upon herself, her daughter wouldn’t suffer for it.

‘So, it ain’t me then?’

Agnes peered down at the child, her forehead creased with bewilderment. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I know sometimes I’m a bit of an ’andful,’ Florence said wistfully, ‘but I ’ave bin trying real ’ard to be good. Master Tasker’s only told me off a few times this week, and I’ve only played a couple of tricks on John and Robert lately, honest. Poppa ain’t mad wiv me, is ’e?’

Tears blurred Agnes’s vision. She put her arms around her daughter and held her tightly.

‘My darling child, of course he isn’t! Why, you know that your father loves you so very much, he could never be cross with you.

You mustn’t worry. He will be home very soon, I’m sure, and then you will see for yourself that he is perfectly all right, and you have no need to worry. ’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m absolutely certain,’ Agnes promised. At least she could tell the truth about that. Mr Wyndham adored Florence, and he would be horrified that his actions recently had caused her such distress.

One thing was clear: if Mr Wyndham could indeed only offer her a relationship based on duty, she would accept it.

It was better to have him in her afterlife under such terms than not have him in it at all, and Florence needed her mother and her poppa.

She would not suffer because of Agnes’s deceitful behaviour.

‘Well…’ Florence gave her a quick hug then grinned at her. ‘In that case, am I okay to go back downstairs? Them cookies smell like ’eaven.’

Agnes patted her on the head. ‘Of course, child.’

‘Actually, Florence, I would like you to do something for me while you’re downstairs.’

Both Florence and Agnes leapt as the sound of a male voice cut through the air.

‘Mr Wyndham!’

‘Poppa, you’re back!’

Florence leapt off the sofa and ran over to him, throwing herself against him as if he’d been gone for months.

‘Now, now,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly, ‘what’s all this about? I’ve only been gone a couple of hours.’

‘I missed you,’ Florence mumbled. ‘And so did Mother. She’s bin ever so sad.’

Aubrey cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, I’m here now. Florence, dear, I would like it very much if you would go downstairs and ask everyone to join us up here.’

Agnes’s hands flew to her ribbons, and she twisted them tightly around her fingers as Florence asked, clearly surprised, ‘Up ’ere? What – all of ’em?’

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Lawrie, Callie, Brodie, Mia, Immi.’ He smiled. ‘You may even bring Brian the cat. I have something to say, and I would like them all to hear it.’

Florence nodded. ‘Okay, Poppa!’

She ran through the door without a backward glance, leaving Agnes alone with Mr Wyndham, feeling as if she might faint at any moment, even though it was hardly likely.

‘Mr Wyndham,’ she said weakly, ‘I wonder if I might speak with you?’

‘Agnes, I wish to speak with you ,’ he said. He sat down beside her, and, to her astonishment, he took her hand in his. ‘I have behaved shamefully towards you, and I wish to apologise with all my heart.’

‘You – you wish to apologise to me?’ she whispered. ‘But it is I who should apologise to you! And I do, Mr Wyndham, unreservedly. I behaved so badly. To deceive you in such a manner – I don’t believe I shall ever forgive myself for it, and if you?—’

‘Hush now, Agnes,’ he said gently. ‘What you did was wrong, but I know for certain that you never meant it unkindly. I understand, my dear. I really do. I’ll admit I lost that clarity of thought for a while, which is why I behaved so disgracefully, but I know now that you acted as you did because you were afraid of losing me.

And the reason you were so afraid of that was because you love me.

You love me deeply, and I rather think I forgot about that. ’

Agnes swallowed. They had never spoken of love before.

Not to each other. It seemed so intimate, somehow.

Of course, they had found other ways to express that emotion.

They had talked of deep respect for each other, and affection, and even referred to each other as husband and wife, but to say the actual word…