nonsense. I came here hoping to spare you what is soon to come. My time is wasted, for you are as stubborn as you were right up ‘til the day I died.’
‘You? Spare me?’ Joseph laughed. ‘When did you ever wish to spare me anything? It was I who saved myself, and none other. I used my own brain and my own hands to make sure that I did not live as you did. And I succeeded at it.’
The ghost looked troubled, but only briefly. ‘My goal is not to make you into myself. I was a hard man in life. A good craftsman, but a poor father.’
‘Thank you for admitting the fact now that it is years too late,’ Joseph snapped, annoyed that his mind would choose his precious free hours to remind him of things he preferred to forget.
‘I bear the punishment of my errors even now. But my goal was to make you something more.’ The ghost pointed with a pale, long-fingered hand that in life had been nimble with a shuttle. ‘Here you are—proof that my job was not done. You are less than you should be. You are certainly less than you must be. That is why you must tear out what you have done. Tear out the work and start again, while you are able. It is not too late to go back. Find the mistake and fix it. Start again, before tomorrow night, or face another visitor.’
‘I have no intention of destroying the work of a lifetime to please some niggling voice in my own mind that will be gone in the morning.’ He pulled up the coverlet and waved a hand. ‘Now, go, sir. Come again as some more interesting dream. You do not frighten me, though I will be glad to see you gone. Bring the girl instead.’
He smiled at the thought. If he could choose a bedtime fantasy, she was better than most. Then he pulled the sheet over his head and rolled away from the figure, trying to ignore the strange green glow that seemed to seep through his closed eyelids. What sort of dream remained even after one ceased to look at it?
One that could still speak, apparently. His father’s voice came from just above him, unbothered by his ignoring of it. It was louder now, and Joseph had his first moment’s fright, thinking if he pulled the blankets away he might find himself inches away from a corpse—close enough to choke on the smell of rotting flesh and see the waxy vacancy of a dead man’s eyes.
‘Very well, then. It is as was feared. You will not listen to me. Be warned, boy. If you have a brain, you will heed before Christmas Eve. From here, I can see what is coming, and I would not wish that—even on you.’
‘Thank you so much, Father, for such a cold comfort.’ Joseph snuggled down into the pillow.
‘There will be three before Christmas. Look for the first when the clock chimes one tomorrow. If you have any sense you will heed them, before it is too late.’
Joseph laughed into the bedclothes. ‘You mean to ruin my sleep between here and Christmas, I suppose? And destroy every last pleasure I take in this holiday. Only you would be trying to visit me with dire predictions on this of all weeks. Come back after Twelfth Night and perhaps I shall care.’
‘Sir?’
Joseph opened his eyes.
The voice was not that of his father but of his valet, who sounded rather worried. ‘Were you speaking to me, Mr Stratford? For I did not quite catch …’
When he pulled back the covers the candles were still lit and there was no sign of the eldritch glow he had been trying to shut out, nor the figure that had cast it. ‘No, Hobson. It was only a dream. I was talking in my sleep, I think.’ It must have been that. He had come back to his room and dozed, spinning a wild fancy without even bothering to blow out the light.
His valet was standing in a litter of clothes, looking around him with disapproval. ‘If you were tired, you had but to ring and I would have come immediately to assist you.’ Hobson picked the jacquard waistcoat from off the floor, smoothing the wrinkles from it and hanging it in the wardrobe.
‘I was not tired,’ Joseph insisted. Although he must have been. Why had he been dreaming? Though he could remember each piece of clothing as he’d dropped it on the floor, he could not seem to manage to remember falling asleep at any point—dressed or otherwise.
‘Then might I bring you a warm drink before bed? A brandy? A posset? In keeping with the season, Cook has mulled some wine.’
‘No, thank you. No spirits before bed, I think.’ At least not like the one he’d had already.
There will be three.
He looked to the valet. ‘Did you say something just now?’
‘I offered wine …’ The man was looking at him as though he was drunk.
‘Because I thought I heard …’ Of course he was sure that he had not heard Hobson speak. It had been his father’s voice for certain, come back to repeat his warning. Although, looking around the room, he could see no sign of a spectre. ‘Did you hear a voice?’
The valet was looking behind him, about the empty room. Then he looked back at his master, struggling to keep the worry from his face. ‘No, sir. Just the two of us conversing.’
Joseph gave a laugh to mask the awkward moment. ‘I must be more tired than I thought. Pay me no mind. And no wine tonight, please. A few hours’ untroubled rest is all I need.’
But if there were to be another evening such as this one he doubted that serenity would be a quality it possessed.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE little corner of the Lampett kitchen set aside as a still room, Barbara inhaled deeply and sighed. After the ruckus of yesterday it was comforting to be home again, immersed in the sights and scents and sounds of Christmas preparation. There were mince pies cooling on a shelf beside the pudding bowl, and the makings for a good bowl of punch set aside against any guests they might have between now and Twelfth Night. Before her she’d arranged what fragrant ingredients she could find—dried rose petals and lavender, cloves, the saved rinds of the year’s oranges and handfuls of pine needles to refill pomanders and refresh sachets in recently tidied closets and drawers.
She glanced down at her apron, pleased to see that there were few marks on it to reveal the labours of the day. Everything spoke of order, cleanliness and control. She smiled. All was as it should be, and as she liked it.
Suddenly the back door burst open and her mother rushed into the room, dropping the empty market basket and looking hurriedly around her.
Barbara stood, fearing the worst. ‘What has happened?’
‘Your father? Is he here with you?’
‘No. He was in the parlour, reading his paper. I’ve heard nothing unusual.’ Barbara rushed to the kitchen door, opening it and staring into the empty front room.
‘On the way to the village I passed Mrs Betts. She had seen him heading towards the mill. He was carrying the axe.’
Barbara stripped off her apron, pushing past her mother to grab a shawl and bonnet from pegs by the door. ‘I will go. You stay here. Do not worry. Whatever he is up to, I will put a stop to it before any real damage is done.’
There could be little question as to what he meant to do if he had taken a tool of destruction. The papers were full of reports from other villages of the frame-breakers—followers
