Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JULIET 2018

After that rather extraordinary afternoon with Noah, Juliet spent the next few days in flat-out physical labor, exhausting herself so thoroughly that she had no trouble falling—and staying—asleep.

She kept remembering what he'd said when she'd asked him why the ghost boy couldn't be Thomas Somersby: "Whoever the boy was in life, he wasn't Thomas." She didn't know why she should find that so reassuring—wouldn't a ghost who'd been stuck on Earth for even longer than a hundred years be that much more demanding? However, Noah's strongly voiced certainty had rung through her with rightness, suggesting she'd found the path to follow.

A path that seemed to be mixed up with Clarissa Somersby's interest in the Wars of the Roses. Maybe .

All right , Juliet conceded.

Her own memory of the ghost boy and Noah's description—"Tall but slight. Fair hair. Carrying a candle and dressed in a white shirt with embroidered cuffs and a cloak."—were by no means definitive of an age. Noah had even sketched the boy for her, though he admitted cheerfully to being much more use as a surveyor working with lines and shading than with portraits. And indeed, the face was indistinct and the clothing, as Juliet pointed out, had commonalities with almost every period of the last six or seven hundred years. It didn't prove anything.

"It tells us he's not a monk from the old priory," he'd said. "Yes, I know. Thomas Somersby might have worn something similar enough. And of course, that's what I thought at first. It's not like I talked to him, but I was wondering, you know? In my head. And when I thought ‘Thomas Somersby,' the boy looked disappointed."

So Noah Bennett was either extraordinarily sensitive to the supernatural, or he had a boundless imagination. Or Juliet's taste in men had moved on from controlling and scary to, at best, creative storytelling and, at worst, out of touch with reality.

Of course, Juliet herself might be out of touch with reality. Anyone from the outside would certainly say so. Thirty-year-old female, newly single, history of depression, recent stillbirth, living in seclusion, blah, blah, blah. Already prone to dreams that bled into waking hours, why wouldn't she hallucinate in a well-known haunted house?

Against all that, Juliet had only one defense. (Two, if you counted Noah Bennett's obviously well-grounded sanity.) It was that, despite everything she'd gone through, she felt better than she had in years. She had no idea how worn down she'd become during her years with Duncan. They'd been together since her second year of college, and everything she knew about long-term relationships had been filtered through this single experience. With the recovery of her body from months of pregnancy and the hormonal aftermath of a wrenching delivery, she realized that she even moved differently now. Always so cautious around Duncan, always bracing herself for an attack of words and emotions she never—or always—saw coming. Now she ran up and down the palatial staircase at Havencross without thinking twice. The muscles she worked hauling boxes or packing books or dragging furniture she loosened with stretching, and they were restored in a day or two.

Most critically of all, she could think.

How long had it been since she could think rationally about anything to do with herself? She'd always managed to do her work, to prepare lessons, lectures, and critique essays with a measure of confidence in her subject matter. History had already happened. But anything beyond those narrow confines had been shadowed and weighed down by Duncan's opinions. Duncan's criticisms. Duncan's ever-so-offhand commentary had been an anchor she dragged everywhere. He might say, "I thought the dean's wife looked a little flabby today" while meaning, "Work out harder and eat less so no one ever thinks my wife looks flabby." Juliet should flatter her department head more, Juliet should never be accused of flirting, Juliet should lengthen her hemlines and raise her necklines and never wear gold and never color her hair pink …

God, no wonder she'd been so tired for so long.

And now she wasn't. She was awake, and she was thinking, and there was no Duncan to cast doubt on her grasp of reality.

She had seen things. She had heard things.

Now she wanted to figure out what it all meant.

On Wednesday she left Havencross at 4 p.m. to meet Noah for dinner. Already the sun was so low that crossing the narrow bridge across the river felt perilous; she wondered how she would manage in complete darkness. Maybe she'd just park on the far side of the river and walk across when she returned.

Even with her nerves about driving and navigating in an unfamiliar city, Juliet was early enough to walk along the river and admire the Tyne bridge before arriving at the Quayside pub. She hovered nervously outside, hoping her black jeans and tweed blazer were appropriate, feeling exactly like she had the last time she'd had a first date. She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn't twenty years old anymore and Noah was nothing at all like Duncan.

Noah came striding up just five minutes later, leaving her both relieved and flustered. Did he always look so delighted to meet someone, or was it just her? He immediately complimented her outfit, asked about the drive, and said, "Do you mind if I kiss you on the cheek?"

Sexy, polite, and respectful of boundaries. As he brushed her cheek with his lips, Juliet knew she was in the best kind of trouble.

"This is really your first English pub?" he asked after they'd ordered and had wine in hand.

"I only arrived in England the day before I reached Havencross. I haven't been anywhere except Heathrow and whatever roads I took to drive up here. Everyone told me I should spend a few days in London first, but I didn't really feel like sightseeing on my own."

"London's well enough," Noah said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "For a visit. But nothing beats the North."

"Have you always lived in Northumberland? I suppose Newcastle is still in Northumberland?"

He fake-clutched his heart. "Woman, you've wounded me! Forget the flu pandemic, we've got to set you studying the most noble and ancient history of Northumbria. Yes, Newcastle is in Northumberland. Ignore those who will want to tell you about the modern county of Tyne and Wear."

"I promise," she said solemnly.

"Seriously, I was born in Hexham, lived all my life at the farm until I went to the University of Edinburgh."

"Farther north," Juliet pointed out.

"Right. Then I came to work here in Newcastle. I could maybe be persuaded to go as far south as York, but that's where I draw the line. What about you? Had you always lived in the same place until you came over here?"

"No. I grew up in Pennsylvania, went to university in Massachusetts, and worked at various colleges in Maine ever since."

She was afraid he would ask her about her marriage next, but the food arrived and conversation became a little less personal if no less entertaining. At least four times Juliet wondered how it was that Noah didn't already have a partner or girlfriend. Maybe she'd ask Rachel about her brother's romantic history.

Over a shared dessert—Juliet pointed out that American pancakes were usually eaten for breakfast—Noah said, "If you're still interested in trying to place our ghost boy in history, I've got an old roommate from university who works at a museum in Berwick. His specialty is medieval history. I could put you in touch with him if you like."

"That would be great. I'm not giving up on the influenza book. But no historian worth their degree would leave a research path until they've exhausted every possibility."

"I'll let him know you'll be calling and text you his info. If you don't mind giving me your number, that is."

"You've fed me authentic English fish and chips. I think I owe you."

He walked her to where she'd parked, and they lingered by the car.

"You'll be all right getting back in the dark?" he asked.

Juliet was too happy to remember her earlier misgivings. "I'll be fine."

"Would I be overstepping if I asked you to text me once you're safely back?"

"Not at all. It's nice to have someone care."

"Care," he repeated. His voice softened and his eyes swept her face. "If I wanted to kiss you good night …"

She caught her lower lip with her teeth, a habit of adolescence. Feeling more bold than she had in years, she said, "It doesn't have to be on the cheek."

"Good."

He kissed her with a thoroughness that left her shaky. Whatever his romantic history, he clearly had one—Noah Bennett knew how to kiss. She imagined he knew how to do a lot of things. She let herself imagine a few of those while she drove back to Havencross, humming as she went.

Even the bridge wasn't as terrifying as she'd feared. It was a clear night, the moon was full, and her headlights provided a steady path across the river. Juliet floated into the house and up the stairs, and listened to herself humming until she reached her bedroom.

Where she heard something else. It was the same sound she'd caught four or five times since she'd arrived, at odd hours of day or night. Something rhythmic, almost like drumming, but less familiar. It came, as always, from the door that led to the medieval solar.

Still buoyed by the pleasure of the evening, Juliet got as far as opening the door to the spiral steps. No way in hell was she going up that tightly enclosed spiral in the dark—she just thought she might hear more clearly with the door open, maybe identify the sound as coming from the boiler pipes. Or something on the roof. It had almost an animal feel, as though raccoons or dogs were running across the highly-peaked roof.

Horses.

Juliet didn't know where that thought came from, but she knew instantly it was right. It was horses she could hear. Obviously not on the roof, but heard through the windows from the solar above her: the drumming of hooves on packed earth, the creak and murmur of leather saddles, the iron jangle of armed riders.

Seized by an impulse to race up the stairs— How many riders? Whose men? —Juliet had gotten three steps up when her phone sounded a text alert. Immediately everything else fell silent. Backing down slowly, afraid to start that unsettling experience again, Juliet eased herself into the corridor and shut the door.

"That was terrifying," she said aloud. "Little ghost boy, whoever you are, tonight would not be a good night to show yourself."

At least hearing her own voice yanked her back to reality. Text alert, right. It was probably Noah, checking on her. She fumbled the phone out of her bag and looked.

It was not from Noah. It was from Duncan.

Do you remember when we went on the haunted trolley tour in Boston? Five years ago tonight. Do you remember what we did later in the hotel? I miss you, Jules. I've never loved anyone the way I love you. Please tell me you forgive me.