Suffering from his drunken binge, Gold is sure he's seeing things, but is he?
Chapter Three: The Apparition
He awoke with his head feeling like it was splitting in two. Then he realised he was lying at a weird angle. Wait, he was lying on the floor.
He tried sitting up and everything hurt. His muscles were stiff and they protested as he tried to arrange himself in a sitting position.
Where on earth was he? What the hell had happened last night?
Milah…and Jones. Yes. He'd drank a lot of Scotch and then found his way here. He looked around. Whatever room he was in hadn't been modernised. Weird. It still felt lived in, somehow. There were no cobwebs or dust.
He remembered now: he was in a room in the West wing. He'd liked this part of the castle yesterday. He liked this room, only…he'd had the oddest dream…
His chest was sore. Probably a consequence of lying on the floor all night. How had he ended up sleeping on the floor anyway?
Yes, he'd had a weird dream. He'd gotten out of bed to protect a woman from a pirate, and the pirate had shot him instead.
Panicking, not remembering this had been a dream, he looked down at his chest, having to crane his neck awkwardly to do so. No wound: no blood. Of course there wasn't, idiot: you were dreaming. Felt real enough…
She'd thanked him, the woman. He closed his eyes and could see her face. Ethereal beauty he felt he'd seen before. The image of her made him gasp and his heart yearn. She'd said he saved her life and thanked him. It sounded like it had come from the bottom of her heart.
It was a dream, though: had to be. Still, he wasn't sure of anything any more. This romantic old castle had gotten to him.
He got up slowly, his chest aching, limbs protesting. He needed food, and to pack, and something for this blasted headache. He'd have to face Milah, and her…lover. He'd rather never have to see either of them again, but he hadn't done anything wrong.
0
'What on earth happened to you?'
He looked up to see Ella and Ursula ahead of him, just on their way in to breakfast. How was he going to explain the fact that he was still wearing yesterday's clothes?
'Ella,' Ursula murmured, obviously seeing his uncertainty.
'Well, never mind, darling. Join us for breakfast?'
He sent Ella a small smile. 'I'm not sure food's a good idea right now,' he confessed.
'Hair of the dog, then? What's your poison? Mine's gin.'
'Scotch,' he admitted.
'Come on: I'll order you one.'
'I don't think that's such a good idea either. I need to drive back today.'
Both women looked at him.
'Well, you're in no state to go anywhere yet,' Ursula told him. 'Try some tea and toast, at least.'
He recognised that she was concerned for him, so he nodded.
He was just following them in when he happened to look up. He gasped. There, standing in the stairwell was the woman from his dream.
She was smiling as she made her way down the last half-flight of stairs.
She was wearing a blue dress, but it was way out of style, more appropriate for a Jane Austen adaptation than the twenty-first century. That didn't seem to faze her, though. She kept coming, smiling warmly. He knew it couldn't be at him, though. She was probably smiling at someone behind him and he was in her eye line.
'Darling?'
He turned to see Ella looking at him, a perfectly plucked eyebrow arched dramatically.
He looked back at the stairs, but the woman from his dream had gone, vanished.
'Darling, what's the matter?' Ella queried: 'you look as though you've seen a ghost.'
'I, uh, I think I could use that drink after all,' he said feebly. What the hell had he just seen?
'You're white as a sheet,' Ella commented, concerned.
0
The Scotch didn't do much to calm him and Ella and Ursula stared at him, not hiding their worry.
'Perhaps one of us should speak to your wife,' Ursula suggested.
'No,' he snapped. 'No,' he said more gently. 'Thank you, but no.'
'Trouble between you?' Ella asked astutely.
'Yes,' he returned, not wanting to talk about it.
'Darling, I've had four husbands,' Ella told him: 'I know all about marital trouble, believe me.'
Gold closed his eyes. 'You know that man, Jones?' he asked quietly.
'Yes, of course.'
'Milah didn't come here to be with me: she came here for him. When I went back to our room last night, I found them together. We're getting a divorce.'
What was the point in trying to hide it? Everyone would know when he left later on and Milah was still here, with Jones.
'I'm sorry,' Ursula said simply.
'Oh, darling,' Ella added sympathetically.
'What will you do?'
'I'm leaving,' he said. 'I came here to work on saving our marriage, but now I know there's nothing to save: there never was.'
Both of them looked sympathetically at him. He knew they meant well, but he didn't want the attention.
'If you'll excuse me, ladies, I need to see about checking out.'
He stood without waiting for them to respond and made his way towards the reception desk.
He had to pass the library and saw that the door was ajar. An image of the painting of Lady Belle flashed into his mind and his heart clenched. The woman from his dream looked just like her…
He had to check, be sure he wasn't mistaken. It wouldn't surprise him if he was: he was so mixed up, his mind was so addled.
He knew it even before he approached: it was her. Same face, same hair, same eyes, same dress, even. She was wearing that dress when he saw her on the stairs too. Oh, what on earth was wrong with him?
'Hello.'
He cursed and jumped, turning quickly and almost losing his balance.
A hand reached out to him and he looked along the bare arm to the blue fabric covering the shoulder. Then he saw brown hair, a beautiful face, and bottomless blue eyes.
It was her: Lady Belle, but it couldn't be. He was going mad.
He stepped backwards and she seemed to too, and then she seemed to fade into nothing.
He sat down, trembling and sick. Nothing like this had ever happened to him because of drinking before. He hadn't gotten the shock he'd gotten last night either, though. But other people didn't learn of their spouse's affairs and then start seeing… He didn't want to think the word 'ghost', but it came. Was he seeing a ghost? It seemed ridiculous, but it was more preferable to the idea that he was going mad.
No, he was just stressed. He didn't believe in ghosts. He couldn't have seen what he thought he had: he'd be locked up if anyone ever knew about this. Well, he wasn't going to tell them. He'd speak to Mrs Potts about checking out early and then he'd go. He needed to get away.
0
'Mr Gold, good morning.' Elinor Potts smiled at the man, but then frowned. He did not look well. 'Is everything quite alright, Mr Gold?' she asked gently.
'I'm very sorry, Mrs Potts,' he said, 'but I must leave. The fact is that my…wife…and I aren't seeing eye to eye. We've decided to separate and I think it would be best for all concerned if I left.'
Elinor knew at once that there was more to it. She knew also that she couldn't let him leave. She'd felt it yesterday: this man needed to be here.
'Mr Gold, I don't think it would be right of me to let you leave until you've at least eaten something. You do look quite pale. Won't you come to my sitting room and let me order you something?'
She knew she was doing the right thing when the warmth rushed around her like a hug. She needed to find out what was going on with him.
Gold gave in because he liked the lady and didn't want to offend her. He'd enjoyed her company yesterday as well and he didn't want to leave without saying a proper goodbye.
0
'Well, dear, I'm sorry to hear about you and your wife.' It was the polite thing to say, so she said it, though something told her that this would be for the best in the end.
'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'I should have seen it coming, though. She hasn't been happy for a long time. I thought I could fix it, but I don't think she ever loved me to begin with.' He didn't mind opening up to Mrs Potts: he knew she wouldn't judge him.
'Tell me, Mr Gold: were you happy?'
If he thought about it…
'No,' he confessed, and it felt good to say it.
Mrs Potts nodded, as if she knew it.
'I don't think you should leave yet,' she said quietly.
'I'm sorry?'
'I think you came here for a reason, Mr Gold, and I don't think you should leave just yet.'
She was completely serious, he saw.
He shook his head. 'You don't understand, Mrs Potts, I can't stay here. I can't explain it, I just…'
'You saw something, didn't you?' she asked.
'What?'
'Do you remember what I said last night, about the worlds of the dead and the living overlapping?'
He stared suspiciously at her.
'You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Mr Gold? You saw, didn't you?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said uncomfortably, standing to leave.
'I see them too,' she told him, and he froze in the process of walking away. 'There are ghosts in this castle, Mr Gold. You did see one, didn't you?'
She sounded hopeful, and if she saw them too…
'I don't know what I saw, Mrs Potts,' he said quietly. 'I was very drunk: I might have been hallucinating.'
'Do you think that you were?' she asked softly, anticipation building.
She wanted him to say no, he realised: she wanted not to be alone with her sixth sense.
'N-no,' he said. Well, if he was mad, at least he wasn't alone.
'Do you mind telling me what it was that you saw?' she asked.
He came back and sat down again, and told her about his odd dream and seeing the woman from the painting on the stairs and then in the library.
Elinor didn't say anything as he spoke, but the more he said, the more she knew that he was meant to be here.
'The worlds of the living and the dead overlap more than people think, as I said, but within that overlapping, there are many different levels. What you're experiencing is unheard of, Mr Gold.'
'I thought you said you saw them too,' he said, recoiling.
'I do,' she soothed, 'but I cannot influence what happens to them: you, on the other hand, can, and have.'
'What do you mean?'
'You stepped between Belle and the pirate. The bullet that killed her hit you instead. That's not a usual occurrence in ghost contact, Mr Gold.'
'What exactly are you telling me?'
'You've changed things. You must understand something, Mr Gold, ghosts are only here for two reasons: they have unfinished business or they died traumatically and their souls can't rest until they get some kind of justice, which is a kind of unfinished business in itself. When you stepped between Lady Belle and the pirate, when you took the force of that bullet, you pulled her out of the cycle she's gone through every night for two hundred years. Things are different for her now, because of you.'
'But she's still dead?'
'Yes.'
'So what I did didn't actually change anything significant, did it?'
'That remains to be seen. You and Belle share some connection that goes beyond life and death. You're linked across time, Mr Gold: you must stay and let whatever is going on play itself out. You can't leave.'
He stared at her. She was in complete earnest and, even if it was crazy, he saw that she was right. It was completely off the wall, but…he felt he needed to stay.
'I don't know what I can do to help her,' he said.
'There are some books you could look at. One of the earls was interested in the paranormal and left an extensive collection of research behind him. And Belle will probably try to make contact again. She hasn't spoken with any mortals aside from me since she died and she will want to talk to you. Please don't be afraid of her: she can't hurt you.'
'I'd like to talk to her,' he said, knowing it was true, 'but she disappeared.'
'Because you pulled away. You must believe, Mr Gold: do you understand?'
'I think I do,' he said.
0
There was no one in the library, which was good. He'd found the research Mrs Potts had directed him to and was engrossed in it. The seventh earl, some kind of cousin of Belle's, shared the Victorian obsession with the paranormal and spirituality. He'd conducted seances and kept detailed notes: he'd had experts to the castle to commune with the spirits, and it seemed he'd even had some success.
There were notes here about conversations with ghosts. One was a boy: Gold realised it was the same boy from last night. His name was Bailey, and he'd been a cabin boy on a pirate ship. He'd hated his captain, and when he heard about the intended raid on this castle, he'd tried to stop him, but the captain had shot him. Now, he haunted the castle, unable to rest in peace. Gold realised the pirate was Hook, Jones' ancestor.
Every night, the scene played out again, Bailey said. He found the lady, tried to help, and the captain came and shot him. He was fourteen, and his spirit lingered here still. Such a sad story, Gold thought.
There was something interesting about Halloween in the notes. Apparently, Halloween was the one night of the year that spirits became corporeal. They could walk abroad again, do all the things they'd done in life. The boy - Bailey - said it was the only reprieve they had.
Gold pushed the papers away and rested his head against the back of the chair. If someone had told him yesterday he'd be immersed in research about ghosts, he wouldn't have believed them. Yet, here he was, delving into the mysteries of life and death, all because of the woman from the painting.
Would she really come to him? He didn't know why she'd want to, but he'd be here if she did.
Tired, he allowed himself to drift off, eventually falling asleep in the chair.
He woke abruptly, sensing a presence. When his eyes opened, they fixed immediately on blue. Frowning, he tried to make out the shape.
He gasped as he realised what he was seeing.
'Hello,' she said softly, her voice echoing.
'H-hello,' he replied. 'You're the woman from the painting, aren't you: Lady Belle?'
'Yes,' she said, and smiled the most breathtaking smile, 'but I don't know your name, sir.'
'Tristan Gold,' he said.
'Well, Mr Gold, thank you once again for what you did.' And he watched her dip into an elegant curtsey.
'I'm still not sure what I did,' he confessed.
She came close, crouching down by his chair. He didn't even think to recoil: he knew she wouldn't hurt him.
'I relive my death every night,' she told him, looking up into his face: 'that is, every night until last night. Because of what you did, because you took that bullet for me, I'm free. I never have to experience that again.'
'So, you can move on, then: go to heaven or the afterlife or…?'
'I don't think so,' she told him.
'But why? I can't imagine you ever hurt anyone. You don't deserve to linger here.'
'Thank you,' she said, smiling up at him. 'I don't think I can move on because…because part of me doesn't want to.'
'Unfinished business?'
'Perhaps.'
'I'd like to help you, if I can.'
'Thank you, but why would you want to?'
'I feel responsible for you being stuck here.'
'You're not,' she insisted: 'you helped me, so much.'
'Well, I…Mrs Potts said that we're connected, you and I, because of what I did. I can feel that connection.' He could. He knew it wasn't normal, but he could feel her here, like she was really alive. Part of her was, he knew: part of her was very alive, the most important part of her.
She raised her hand, as if she would touch him, and she kept it hovering next to his cheek.
'You can't feel that, can you?' she asked, almost plaintively.
'No,' he said apologetically, 'but I feel you here. I felt it when I looked at your painting too: you're so alive.'
'That's why I can't move on: I'm not ready to. There's still so much I want.'
'Like what?'
'I wanted to see the world. My father laughed at that, but I couldn't help it. I was determined to go, one day.'
'Can you? Could you leave the castle?'
She shook her head sadly.
'What else, then: what else do you want?' If he couldn't help her do that, there must be something else he could help her do.
She looked up at him, eyes clear and bright, and he stared down at her as she bit her lip.
'Oh, I want…'
'Tell me,' he prompted.
She laughed awkwardly, shook her head and stood, turning away.
'It doesn't matter.'
'It does to me,' he said gently.
She sent him an uncertain smile over her shoulder.
'Please tell me.' He'd do anything to make her happy.
'Perhaps later,' she said, and turned to him with a smile. 'What are you reading?'
'The seventh earl's research: he was interested in ghosts.'
'Oh, I remember him,' she said, smiling: 'people called him a lunatic, but everything he's written is true.'
'The boy who was with you last night talked to him.'
'Poor Bailey,' she said sadly. 'I still wish I could have helped him.'
'He was very brave.'
'So were you.'
He shook his head. 'Hardly.'
'What made you do that: what made you step between me and Hook?'
'I didn't want you to be hurt.'
'So you put your life in danger for mine: that's very brave.'
'That happened to you every night?'
'Yes. It's never been as bad as the first time: you don't feel the pain the same way once you're dead, but you feel the echo, and that's painful enough.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I know you are.' She smiled. 'You know, this is my favourite room in the castle,' she said lightly, changing the subject.
'You like books?' Whatever she wanted to talk about was fine with him.
'I love them.' She went to one of the shelves and drew her fingertips along the spines. 'I miss them.'
Of course she couldn't touch them: she was incorporeal, while the books were physical things. Everything about her was so achingly sad.
'I could read to you, if you like,' he suggested.
She smiled at him, her eyes shining. 'I would like that.'
'Choose one,' he invited, standing and moving closer.
She bit her lip again and he thought it the most adorable gesture. She looked along the shelves, but then they heard a noise outside.
'Someone's coming,' she whispered, and he watched, eyes wide, as she began to fade into nothing.
'Don't!' He reached out, but, of course, he couldn't touch her. He longed so much to touch her.
'I'll come back,' she promised, her voice barely a whisper on the air.
The relief he felt when he heard that surprised him, but this was turning out to be a very surprising day.
To be continued
Next time, there's some opposition to Belle and Gold.
Author's note: I wanted to comment about Belle's speech. I decided that, although Belle died in 1816, her speech would be influenced by hearing the way people speak now. Thus, although her speech is a little archaic, she does contract words, so she says things like can't and don't rather than cannot and do not. When I tried writing her speaking strictly as a Regency person would have, she sounded cold rather than the warm character she is, so I compromised with the contractions, while still having her speak somewhat archaically.
