These Haunted Hearts: A Regency Ghost Story Read Free Page B

recognized his destiny. A year of courting her had seen off a
crowd of rivals, many of greater estate than he. Then, praise God,
she’d admitted her love and consented to become his wife.
    Had he possessed Isabella before everything went
wrong? They’d married at Marston parish church. He remembered that
distinctly. Surely he wouldn’t take her to wife without seeking his
sweet reward. Yet something about the straining, bristling energy
in his body indicated he hadn’t had her. And he couldn’t imagine
he’d forget holding her in his arms.
    The damnable thing was that his body continued to
experience sensation, however false the perception. He recognized
the day as warm for May. He was aware of the weight of his braided
blue velvet coat, newly tailored for his great day. His
non-existent blood still pulsed with desire for his absent
bride.
    So, no, he doubted he’d tumbled her before
he…died.
    Before he died.
    Time had passed since his wedding day in 1749.
    Years and years of it.
    Time seemed determined to play nasty tricks on him.
The space between waking and now, late afternoon, had passed in
moments. He felt like he’d only stirred within the last hour, yet
the tiny ormolu clock on the carved chest indicated a whole day had
gone by.
    What the devil had he done the day he married the
love of his life? He urgently needed to find out. More than that,
he needed to find Isabella. He couldn’t endure being here on his
own. An eternity without her was too cruel a punishment for any
crime, however heinous.
    He turned toward the door, left ajar after the
lovers’ departure. Neither had had the slightest inkling that he
observed them. Gradually he came to understand the rules of this
bewildering new existence. He could see everything around him while
it seemed that nobody could see him.
    Moving provided yet another uncanny experience.
Although his mind recognized that he had no physical substance, he
felt that he walked like a living man, covered distances like a
living man. Yet he kept tumbling into gaps in time when he
was…nowhere. Confusion, questions, contradictions battered him.
    Wicked Josiah Aston?
    The bedroom was full of unfamiliar furniture, apart
from the ostentatious bed. Little in the corridor was familiar
either, apart from the faded wallpaper and the tall window at the
end of the hall. He drifted through a few rooms, noting the
occasional ornament or table that remained from his time in the
house. The decorations weren’t nearly so elaborate as they’d been
in his day. Had the family come down in the world since his demise?
Or was he just observing a change in fashion? The house was his
house and yet it wasn’t. Another difficult concept to impress upon
his reeling mind.
    Slowly, carefully, he made his way through the house,
seeking Isabella and some clue to his fate. Nothing provided any
indication, unless absence of evidence was indication enough. The
double portrait he’d commissioned from Allan Ramsay for his wedding
was nowhere to be seen. There were plenty of other family portraits
hanging on the walls, most with the familiar Aston dark hair and
blue eyes that he’d seen in his looking glass every day.
    Frequently, in spite of his driving urgency to see
his wife, he’d find himself transfixed by something he knew from
his life. A painting of Venice that he’d bought on his Grand Tour.
The library. The view across the park to the lake, a scene which
had changed remarkably little. He’d stir to continue his
exploration, check one of the household clocks, and find that an
hour, two hours had passed. And still he had no idea what had
happened to him. Or his darling.
    All the bedrooms on the floor below the Chinese room
were readied for wedding guests, but he didn’t miss the house’s
barely concealed signs of neglect. Many of the rooms reeked of
disuse, dust, stale air, in spite of windows flung wide to the late
spring afternoon.
    Occasionally he encountered a servant or a wedding
guest. They