A/N: The astute among you will have realized that this fic is an homage one of my favorite films, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947). If you haven't seen it, I urge you to look it up. I love to watch it this time of year—it's witty and romantic and you'd never believe Rex Harrison could be so sexy! I can assure you it won't spoil your enjoyment of this fic at all.

Thanks for your lovely and kind support!

Chapter 2

Anthony Strallan, you are a fool, the former Sir Anthony chided himself from his seat atop the church bell tower. He had, out of respect for Edith, removed himself from the cottage to spend the evening, and sat watching the lights on the water, his long invisible legs hanging down over the eaves, turning the day's events over in his mind.

He hadn't intended to be seen. He'd spent years hovering about his old properties, most of it at Gull Cottage as it was not inhabited on a regular basis, and it had been years since he'd suffered such a lapse. He'd easily re-cultivated the military vigilance that had served him so well during his mortal years and, when needed, found he could heighten his perception through some strange supernatural power. And yet with all that, he had let himself be seen!

Though deep down he knew he was lying to himself. Deep down, he knew he'd been hoping this lovely new stranger would discover his presence. For, just as Edith had felt the house's immediate embrace, so too, did Anthony feel his spirit stirred by her arrival. She was, he admitted freely, breathtakingly beautiful—yet more alluring than her wide eyes was the strength of the gaze within them, more enticing than her lithe form was the energy of her movement. With all that was mixed a childlike sincerity and even, he'd noted as he watched her sleeping before the fire that first evening, a hidden vulnerability and longing.

What's more, the eternity to which he was bound was lonely. Oftentimes crushingly so. The late Sir Anthony Strallan often bitterly remarked how fitting it was that his afterlife should be such a close imitation of his mortal one; comprised of unending solitude. Nevertheless he'd discovered ways to ease the monotony—to add some purpose to his immortality. Dickensian as his existence was, it seemed that he did not share the fate of Marley and his associates, and so was able to use his undetectable form (initiated at will) and unrestricted physicality to play the part of a benevolent guardian—taking an active role himself or else guiding the living towards those they could aid, or save, or love. He'd learned early into his afterlife that attachment to those with a mortal life only brought heartache as they moved on and you were left behind. Alone.

But here he was again, after all these years, risking the same heartache. And why? He asked himself again and again. What is it about her? And though he pondered the matter throughout his sleepless night and into the next day, he found he could not find any sense or logic in the course he was about to take, nor could he still the longing he was beginning to feel in his deceased, though by no means lifeless, heart.

"The only Sir Anthony Strallan I know of died almost seventy years ago…"

Anna's words broke into Edith's thoughts for the hundredth time.

But that's impossible, Edith's mind argued back for the hundred and first time. There must be another Sir Anthony Strallan.

And, resolutely setting down her empty coffee cup, Edith determined to find out.

Soon she was seated staring impatiently at the local library's one, unbearably slow computer waiting for Whitecliff's equally sluggish internet service to resolve her genealogical query. Edith almost held her breath as the page for which she was waiting slowly loaded, first the ads, then the borders, then the confirmation she was seeking. There was, and had only ever been one Sir Anthony Strallan. And he had died in 1947. The family tree on the page stopped irrevocably at Anthony's name, underneath which a small, red font read: buried at Locklsey House in Yorskhire. She noted that a horizontal line connected Sir Anthony to one Maud Christiana Herbert, but that she had died many years before her husband, and that no line stretched down from the union to suggest children. Rather than the fear or satisfaction she thought she might feel at uncovering her dinner guest's true identity, Edith felt a sudden sadness settle over her. How lonely he must've been.

Edith left the library and went again to the local market, her mind still full of the revelations of the past few hours. She'd decided on a spiced apple pork loin for dinner and picked up some of the bakery's sticky toffee pudding for dessert, but as she paid for her groceries, she couldn't help wondering if it was all moot. If he really was…Edith still couldn't quite make herself admit the word "ghost"… could he even eat? And yet she bought and prepared (a task made more challenging by the incapacitation of her left wrist) and bustled around the house to create an atmosphere that was perhaps a bit beyond simply welcoming. She also took special care in her own appearance, digging out her best outfit, which was not at all close to what she'd liked to have worn for such an occasion. Oh well, she sighed to herself as she surveyed the sweater-skirt combination, you didn't pack expecting you'd be entertaining a ghost for dinner. And she had to laugh at the absurdity of such a thought as she clasped on her earrings and headed downstairs.

Anthony arrived at exactly six o'clock. Edith, in the kitchen bent over her pork loin, closely examining a meat thermometer, jumped when she heard the sound of the doorbell. Giving her hair a hasty tousle, she hurried out into the cool hallway and glided over to open the door.

And there he was, wearing the same tweed suit he'd been wearing the day before—but that she now noticed was cut in a much outdated style. She grinned awkwardly as she realized she was scrutinizing him—her mind searching for some sign of the supernatural. It seemed devious somehow that she might know his secret—if indeed it was true, her rational mind kept arguing. Yet how to approach such a subject without seeming completely mad? And if he was—a spirit- would he be offended? Was one's mortality something you discussed in polite society? Again Edith remarked that the whole situation was so utterly absurd.

"Dinner will just be a little bit longer," Edith nearly blurted, trying to cover her awkwardness.

He smiled good-naturedly at her.

"I see the doctor set you up nicely," he gestured to her arm with his good one.

"Oh, yes, it's a fracture, nothing too bad. Though it does itch terribly. I'll open the wine and we can have a drink before dinner," she chattered. "I've set up a table in the library," she threw over her shoulder as she scurried off to the kitchen.

Anthony chuckled to himself at her nervousness, determining to put her out of her misery as soon as possible. He then strolled into the library and seated himself at the table.

"Here we are," Edith burst in with a bottle in her fist. She seemed slightly more composed as she poured out the wine.

When she had seated herself, she sat for a moment, fingering her cast uncomfortably. Anthony watched her mind spin behind her eyes. Finally, a look of resolution settled on her face and she took a fortifying sip of wine, and began.

"Sir Anthony, this is going to sound completely—"

But that was all she got out before Anthony interrupted her in his calm, compassionate voice. "My dear Miss Crawley. I fear you must have discovered certain facts about my…about me. Facts that your rational mind are telling you couldn't possibly be true. I hope you won't be too frightened if I confess…that they are."

He waited for a moment. Edith's face lost some of its lustre and her eyes widened perceptibly.

"You mean," Edith breathed incredulously, "you really are…you're not alive? You're…a ghost?"

She reached out a shaky hand and gulped down some wine.

"Yes," he said calmly, watching Edith with great concern. "Are you quite well?"

"…yes," she said after a moment. "It's just…I didn't really think it was possible. I've never really believed in ghosts."

"Funny thing is, I didn't used to either," he remarked lightly.

Edith nodded, still a bit dazed.

"So…er…are you going to eat dinner?" Edith noticed he hadn't touched his wine.

He broke into his half-smile, which did much to improve Edith's ruffled senses.

"While it's true I'm more grave than gravy," he quipped, earning a little grin from Edith, "I can still enjoy some of the pleasures of the flesh, if in a somewhat diminished form."

"Diminished?" Edith asked.

"My senses are…quite dulled…by my…shall we say, spirithood…but not gone," he explained.

"How strange it must be," Edith mused aloud.

"It took some getting used to," he admitted.

"Well, in that case, I'd best go see to that pork loin," said Edith, hopping up.

"I love the house by the way," Edith remarked, loading her fork with yet another bite of warm, gooey pudding. "Did you design it?"

"No," Anthony replied, himself languorously emptying his own plate. "I believe it was designed by a sea captain named Gregg around 1880. I purchased it after Maud died." A rueful look stole over his face.

"Your wife," Edith stated gently.

"Yes," he concurred, pulling his smile back, though a slight sadness lingered in his eyes "I found I wanted to get away from Locksley after she passed. I bought this place here on the coast. It's refreshingly different from Yorkshire."

"And London," Edith remarked.

He chuckled at her disdain. "Indeed."

"Anna—Anna Bates—said you left the house to her great-grandfather," Edith recalled, loving the way his laugh seemed to warm her very heart.

"Oh yes. I came here less frequently after the war, and Bates and Anna—the Anna I knew—went through some tough times and they needed a place to get away and work things out. I offered them the cottage, and then when the kids came they regularly took family holidays here. Bates was a good man, and Anna was one of the kindest women I've ever known. When I died, I couldn't think of anyone more fitting to have it."

Edith smiled at his warmth when speaking of his old friends. It was good to know he had once had some companionship.

"At any rate, I'm so very pleased you like the house," he said sincerely, fixing affectionate blue eyes full upon her.

"I do, very much," Edith met his gaze, feeling the glow in her chest intensify. Once again, she felt she might drown in those eyes—full of merriment and melancholy and (though surely she imagined it) admiration and even…desire. Sitting there, staring into this stranger's soul she felt something in her own fall into place…something so new yet so familiar…

Suddenly, he turned away, pulling himself back with what Edith noted fondly as Victorian propriety.

"You said you met Anna while you were studying," Anthony's voice was almost businesslike.

"Yes," Edith scooped up her wine glass and moved from the table to one of the library's overstuffed chairs.

Anthony followed her, planting himself on a neighboring sofa. "And what did you study, Miss Crawley?"

"English literature and journalism, Sir Anthony," Edith answered, mocking his interrogatory tone.

He smiled apologetically. "Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that my time the intelligence corps is over," he joked.

Edith beamed at him, her mind happily occupied with the image of her handsome dinner guest in uniform.

The hours passed, and Anthony and Edith talked and talked, finding between them an endless supply of conversation. Edith listened, enthralled, as Anthony talked about his life and his career, his memories on the death of Queen Victoria, the sinking of the Titanic, World War I, The Stock Market crash and the rise of Nazi Germany. Anthony listened just as entranced as Edith told of her childhood and family, of her work and her passion for social justice. Before long, the ship's clock on the mantelpiece chimed four.

Anthony hated to end what was undoubtedly one of the best nights of either of his lives, but he could see Edith's fading energy and knew it was time for him to leave. He made a comment to that effect and rose to go.

"One last question before you go," Edith yawned, just as reluctant to end their conviviality.

"Yes?" He turned back to her; certain he would grant her anything she desired.

"Why do you haunt?"

He considered for a moment.

"I don't know," he said, almost to himself, "I've often wondered what keeps me…stuck…like this. It's been said there is something you're hanging out for, something you missed in life, some unfinished business…" He shrugged his broad shoulders.

She nodded, watching him through heavily-lidded eyes.

He smiled tenderly at her. "Now, my dear, I think it is time you went to bed."

She smiled back, and Anthony resisted the urge to lift her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs to her bed. Instead, he gave a small bow and strode out into the hall. As he passed silently through the closed front door and out into the night, Edith's face bright in his mind, he repeated her final inquiry to himself. Why do you haunt?

Perhaps, he thought to himself as he rose into the night sky, I'm beginning to find out.