Page 21 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Silas paced his bedchamber for at least a quarter of an hour after the ghostly visit, trying to make sense of it.

His father had been dead these past five years, and he hadn’t seen Grace since a frigid Christmas Eve ten years ago.

The day before Elyse had died. He’d pushed thoughts of his lost love so far down, he was surprised his brain had managed to dredge them up.

He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, wondering if he had a fever, but his skin was chilled to the touch.

Perhaps the blame lay with Benedict. If he hadn’t arrived this evening, with his smiles and invitations and reminders of the family Silas had once had…

With a groan, Silas threw himself back into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin in an attempt to warm himself. He couldn’t believe he’d given any credence at all to the possibility that his dead father had visited him from beyond the grave.

The wind howled through the cracks in the windowsills, carrying a chill that made even the roaring fire seem useless. He tossed restlessly in the tangled sheets, trying to find some peace, when he felt another shift in the air.

He lifted his head reluctantly, dread pooling within him, only to find yet another ghost hovering beside his bed.

The specter materialized where the shadows had been deepest, its body shimmering with ethereal radiance.

It was almost too bright to look at, and Silas cowered back, realizing that perhaps none of this was a dream but something terrifyingly real.

“Silas Frostwick,” it called, each note of its clear, musical tone vibrating through Silas’s chest.

Silas pushed himself upright, and the very act of breathing seemed to dislodge time. The room dissolved around him, shimmering like a hazy portal. “Are you one of the spirits my father said would come to teach me?” he asked shakily.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” the spirit answered. “Will you come with me?”

Silas stared at it for a moment or at least tried to.

The bright light emanating from the creature's heart made it almost impossible to distinguish any of its features. He wanted to refuse this invitation, just as he’d refused Benedict’s, but his father’s words came back to haunt him.

Somehow, he knew that to refuse would be at the peril of his immortal soul.

He reluctantly slid out of bed and stepped forward, pulling on his dressing gown once more. The moment he belted it around his waist, the cold room fell away. Warmth suddenly enveloped his skin as the scents of roasting chestnuts and fresh pine filled the air.

He was no longer in his frigid bedchamber but in the great hall of his family’s country estate, Snowdon Grange, enveloped in a Christmas memory long forgotten.

Candlelight flickered against richly adorned walls, casting intricate shadows that danced to the joyful rhythm of laughter.

Silas blinked, feeling both the thrill of childhood and the heaviness of loss in a single breath.

He turned to the spirit, but before he could ask the question, the spirit answered. “They cannot see you. This is but a memory of things past.”

Silas stood near the towering Christmas tree, a spectator of this moment from long ago.

He saw himself there—a boy no more than eight, eyes alight with an innocent wonder he could no longer claim.

Young Silas moved through the crowd, laughing and talking to those he passed, obviously enjoying every moment in the way only a child can.

Family members surrounded the boy, each face familiar yet strange after all these years.

An elderly aunt with laugh lines etched deep offered him a brightly wrapped gift, while his mother, vibrant and lovely, fussed over a table laden with seasonal delights.

His father held court near the fireplace, and his older sister, Elyse, who had been in the midst of her debut Season, looked dazzlingly beautiful in her Christmas finery.

The air was thick with the aroma of roast goose, spiced wine, and sugared sweets.

The elder version of Silas felt pulled into the scene, the spectral chill that had gripped him thawing in the presence of such overwhelming warmth.

But the more he watched, the sharper his awareness became of the years that had passed.

He saw the joy and connection he had once taken for granted, which now seemed distant and unreachable.

Amidst the chatter, young Silas’s voice rang out, bright and unburdened.

“Come see what I got!” the boy exclaimed, holding up a wooden train with wheels that spun at a touch.

The others gathered around him, their collective laughter echoing through the hall.

There was such life, such light in this place, and Silas felt the ache of it deep in his bones.

A fleeting glance at the Ghost of Christmas Past revealed its form glowing softly at the periphery, a reminder of the journey’s purpose.

“Do you remember this?” the ghost inquired.

The words pierced the moment, and suddenly, he did remember everything—especially his mother’s laughter and the Christmas carols.

The memory became a double-edged gift, each joyful detail laced with the painful knowledge of what would come to pass.

The lights burned brighter, the scents grew stronger, and the older Silas felt the crushing weight of the life he had turned away from.

“I do,” he said hollowly. “I was happy then.”

Everything suddenly shimmered, then disappeared, and now he was looking at a different Christmas Eve altogether. He saw himself again, older now, perched on the wide staircase that overlooked the hall, his chin propped on his hands as he watched the celebrations below.

He knew what year this was, and it filled him with a profound sense of loss.

His mother had been very sick that year.

She had remained in her bed, unable to join the festivities.

Still, his father’s voice carried through the room, a deep and authoritative tone calling for a toast, as if nothing were the matter.

Had he loved her at all? Over the years, Silas had begun to doubt it.

Glasses clinked in reply, the music swelled, and Silas shrank even further into himself.

His mother had died the very next day. On Christmas morning. His whole world had changed.

“Christmas has taken so much from me,” he told the spirit, trying to make it understand. “That’s why I don’t celebrate it now. I lost my mother, Elyse, Grace…”

Time began to fold in upon itself, the room spinning like his toy train’s wooden wheels, and Silas clung to the fragments of the scene. He was losing it again, losing all of it, and the knowledge sliced through him like a blade.

“Christmas is not to blame,” the ghost said, its tone neither kind nor cruel. “For if you had not lost them at that time of year, you would have lost them at some other. Such is the nature of life.”

As those words echoed within him, he and the ghost were transported to the hidden world behind the manor. The frosted arches of the garden gazebo glistened beneath a waning moon. The air was sharp and expectant, and he shivered not from the cold but from the thrill of forbidden anticipation.

His younger self, twenty-four years old—the most handsome he’d ever been, but perhaps the most foolish as well—waited nervously for a romantic tryst. His romance with Grace Hollybrook, one of the estate’s upstairs maids, had been an act of reckless defiance against the life mapped out for him by his father.

He had loved her in a way he’d never loved anyone before or since.

She’d been more than an object of lust; she’d been his best friend, someone with whom he’d shared his deepest thoughts.

He’d believed he could somehow make it work with Grace, that his father, who’d never cared about anything but wealth and position, would allow his son—his heir—to marry someone of his own choosing, even though society considered her so far beneath them.

They’d snuck around for nearly a year, meeting in the garden and empty rooms, their friendship and passion growing with each passing day. He’d made her so many promises… He’d said he’d stand up to his father, and at the time, he’d meant it.

A rustling sound drew his attention, and then he saw her. Grace moved swiftly toward his younger self, her face filled with joy and love.

It had been Christmas Eve. And he’d had a ring in his pocket. It should have been the best day of his life.

Instead, it had been the worst.

The older Silas was conscious of every detail, the delicate frost etching Grace’s golden hair, puffs of her breath mingling with the moonlit shadows. He marveled at the courage in her gaze, the unspoken invitation that drew his younger self closer.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Young Silas murmured, catching her up in his arms and hugging her tightly before pulling her into the scant protection of the gazebo, trying to infuse her with some of his warmth.

“It was hard to get away,” she said, nestling against him, her soft curves molding to him perfectly. “The house is full of guests, and I’ve been running non-stop since dawn.”

“I’m sorry,” Young Silas murmured. “So bloody sorry that you’ve had to work so hard. But one day, you’ll be my countess, and all of this will be but a bad memory.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes troubled. “Will it?”

His foolish younger self did not sense her heartbreak or realize she was already starting to doubt him, but his older self saw it clearly.

Young Silas was so starved for the taste of her, for her body pressed against his, that he did not soothe her fears.

Instead, he simply lowered his lips to hers, kissing her with youthful abandon.

Silas remembered how the urgency of their stolen moments had pressed upon him, every second a gift wrapped in peril.

They lingered in the moonlight, kissing passionately.

It was a beautiful madness, and Silas had embraced it, but perhaps he’d known it could never last, even though he’d promised her it would.

She’d tasted like strawberries, he remembered, longing shooting through him, stirring a hunger he’d nearly forgotten. What he wouldn’t give to trade places with his younger self for just a few moments so that he could taste love one more time…

Then, with the snap of a brittle branch, the spell was broken.

“Silas.” His father’s furious voice came from somewhere behind them. It cut through their embrace like a blade, the finality of it undeniable.

Panic flashed in Grace’s eyes, and Silas remembered how the world had constricted around him. He’d known immediately that the time had come to choose—the path his father had laid out before him or the dangerous, uncharted territory of his feelings for Grace.

The earl burst into view, his face twisted with rage. “Your guests are looking for you,” he snarled. “And I find you out here in the cold with a housemaid?”

“Father, I—”

“Silence,” his father barked, giving Silas a look so icy it melted everything he’d just been feeling.

“I heard rumors that you were debasing yourself in such a way, but I didn’t believe it.

Didn’t believe you could be so stupid and thoughtless.

” His imperious gaze moved to Grace, judging her as though she were a dockside whore instead of the wonderful woman his son loved.

“And you… Do you not value your position here? Are you not grateful for everything this family has provided you?”

Grace turned scarlet, and his older self saw how much his father’s words had hurt her, how frightened she was that she was going to lose everything, including her livelihood.

Before she could reply, his father turned his attention back to his son.

“Do you imagine that she will still love you if I cut you off?” He laughed bitterly.

“Do you believe that you could survive one day on the streets of London without my money and name to fall back on?” His younger self visibly wilted, and his father shook his head grimly.

“Unless you want to find out, you will follow me back into the house and never speak to this woman again.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode away.

“I’m sorry,” Young Silas choked out, the words torn from him as if from a wound. Because in that moment, he’d known he could not survive without the wealth and privilege he was accustomed to. The mere thought of living without them terrified him.

He turned his back on her, but every step he’d taken away from Grace had been a betrayal of his own heart.

“You fool!” Silas found himself shouting at his younger self. “Go back! Fight for her!”

“They can’t hear you,” the ghost reminded him softly. “You can’t change this. It is in the past.”

As the younger Silas disappeared after his father, Grace stood motionless. Tears glistened in her beautiful, pale eyes, and her quiet sobs followed him as he and the ghost left this place. Her pain resonated with a depth he could only now fully fathom.

“She truly loved me, didn’t she?” he asked the spirit, regret nearly drowning him.

In response, the spirit merely showed him an even sadder scene.