Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 30: THE GATHERING
Millicent stared at the brick wall timidly. The voice that spoke behind it sounded well-meaning and kind.
But it was a fallacy.
The voice belonged to a heinous fraud. A vicious persecutor who was devoid of the virtue that he boasts.
But he was a witch hunter.
"Trask," Millicent began nervously. "The wicked woman who cursed my family has returned."
"I know, my child," Trask's voice replied behind the wall. "Do you wish for me to deliver God's salvation to her lost soul?"
Millicent hesitated.
Distractedly, she heard footsteps coming from upstairs. There seemed to be some commotion.
Julia looked up as Barnabas entered through the front doors of the Old House.
As he shut them, she asked, "Did you see Willie and Maggie?"
"Yes, they are at Collinwood, seeing to their duties." Barnabas hung up his cloak-like coat, setting his cane aside.
"I can't believe Maggie wants to work," Julia said dismayed.
"She's determined to see this through to the end," said Barnabas. "And frankly, I think it's rather gallant."
"She and Willie obviously have their own reasons," Julia noted to placate him.
"Just as we do," said Barnabas.
He paused, causing Julia to give him one of her squinty looks.
"Barnabas? Is there something wrong?"
"Ben is not here." Barnabas sounded bewildered. "But I couldn't help but notice many spirits gathering up at Collinwood."
"I do not believe you are a man of virtue," Millicent said evenly. "You are a man of wickedness."
"Why then do you seek my guidance?" Trask asked pointedly from behind the wall.
"Can you vanquish the witch?" Millicent demanded.
"I have faith in my abilities to banish the wicked," said Trask.
"Your faith can be misguided," Millicent countered harshly. "For it was your wrongful judgment that marched poor Phyllis Wick to the gallows. A good, innocent, Christian woman. Whilst the real wicked woman, the demon who damned my family, eluded you.
"Why were you so blind?"
After a pained sigh, Trask finally uttered, "Failing to meet the expectations of our Lord is a grave sin indeed. I'd like to repent for my failures. After nearly two centuries, is that too much to ask for?"
"Do you have such power?" Millicent asked.
"Yes," Trask said softly. "Now that I am divested of my sinful flesh, I find that my soul can reflect the glory of the Lord in its entirely. Much more so than when I was mere flesh and blood. But my soul is entombed here. A sorry curse indeed."
"You resent my family so," Millicent said knowingly.
"Your wicked little secret Barnabas Collins," Trask growled behind the wall, "has been tainted by the most fowl evil our world has ever known."
"I thought as such," Millicent concluded. "I shall not release you. You will only bring harm to my tormented cousin."
"Your cousin is an abomination," Trask's voice said arrogantly.
"Maybe so," said Millicent. "But my family will protect him. He is our kin."
"That man is akin to not but the Devil," Trask seethed behind the wall.
"I shall leave." With her nose pointed to the air, Millicent turned her back.
"I know Barnabas Collins is no longer a vampire," Trask said hastily. "I have unwillingly shared this decrepit abode with him for what must have been a year already."
Millicent turned back to the wall. "Then why do you decry him?"
Trask's voice was neutral when he said, "My sins follow me, do they not? Why then should I be expected to forgive a man who has proven to be far more wicked than myself? Has he forgiven me?"
"I – um – " Millicent was lost for words. She didn't know very much about the history between Barnabas and this man. Only that her family loathed him and a few anecdotes about his heinous crimes. "Barnabas has certainly made mistakes. But he is a good man, and he is trying to start over."
There was a pause. Millicent could only stare at the bricks waiting for a reply.
A thoughtful sounding Trask finally answered. "It cannot be easy starting a new life in a witch's shadow."
Millicent was going to speak, but Trask carried on.
"Perhaps this is why God sent you to me. I, too, wish to begin again. To follow that path God laid out before me. You may well be my guardian angel, child."
Millicent's hand fluttered to her translucent bosom. Never in all of her unlife had she been referred to as an angel.
"You really possess the power to vanquish the witch?" Millicent pressed.
"Yes child," said Trask. "With your help."
Millicent floated closer to the wall, placing a delicate hand on it. Her hand streamed through the hard brick.
"I am afraid I cannot tear down this wall."
But through the wall, a tight cold grip seized Millicent's hand.
"All I need to aid me is a willing hand," said the wicked reverend.
Upstairs in the parlor, Barnabas and Julia were seated on armchairs by the crackling fire, Josette's portrait looking down on them.
"What do you suppose the ghosts are up to at Collinwood?" Julia queried.
"I do not have the faintest idea," Barnabas fumed. "It seems Josette would rather confide in Willie and Maggie than myself."
Julia had a half interested, but bemused expression on her face. "I'm sure Josette has your best interest in mind."
Even as she said this however, a sharp icy pain struck Barnabas' mind. It was followed by an indescribable feeling of dread.
Julia instantly read Barnabas' troubled expression.
"What's the matter, Barnabas?"
"Julia – I – I believe I felt a horrible presence – of some kind." Barnabas didn't know how to describe it.
"What?" Julia squinted.
"I assure you it wasn't me," a voice intruded.
Barnabas and Julia shot their eyes at the parlor's entrance. The Satanic scientific specimen Gerard Stiles meekly smiled at them.
"How did you get out of the basement?" Julia asked stoically.
"I think you know how, dear doctor," the ghoul replied. "After all, you summoned me because your mundane science is ineffectual against the supernatural."
"The effects of yesterday's experiments certainly seem to have worn off," Julia observed.
"Naturally," the ghoul said lightly. "But tell me, whom do I suffer in place of? If I am only to serve as a weapon against her, then it's only fair that I know why."
Barnabas and Julia cast the silver tongue ghoul unreadable looks.
As hordes of spirits began to assemble on the high-pitched roof of Collinwood, Millicent hurried through the frosted woods, pulling the disgraced reverend with her.
"You mustn't be seen!" Millicent shrieked. "I could not bear it if my family sees me with you!"
"Is the witch nearby?" Trask inquired, ignoring the frantic child's concern.
"Yes, but we must postpone your hunt!" Millicent stressed, as they streamed through the trees.
"Millicent! How splendid! It only took you two short centuries, but you finally made a wise decision!" Nathan's voice echoed jovially. "Or at least you were wise enough to allow me to make one for you."
"Leave us alone, Nathan!" Millicent raged.
"Is that the voice of that sullied lecher Lt. Forbes?" Trask asked.
"Never mind him!" Millicent snapped.
Eventually, she led Trask to the icy tool shed near the house by the sea. They streamed through the exterior, Millicent rattling the tools on the walls as she entered. Once inside, the sheltered heiress finally collected herself.
Trask observed his new rustic surroundings. The windows were completely encased in ice. Still, it was a palace compared to the inside of a brick tomb.
"We shall hide in here," Millicent declared. "Once this commotion with my family is concluded, I shall show you to the witch."
At her promise, an unseemly grin formed on his thin lips.
At her post in the forbidden corridor of the West Wing, Beth felt a swell of energy coming from the spirits gathering on the roof. Their presences weighed down the weathered ancestral manor.
"Beth, I believe this meeting is about Quentin," Rachel Drummond's disembodied voice whispered.
"It is about Quentin," Tim Shaw's voice added. "I just received confirmation of such."
"Would you like to attend the meeting, Beth?" Rachel asked. "Surely, Carl and Pansy will be there. As well as the gypsies."
"Rachel and I will gladly guard Quentin for you," Tim offered. "Josette has already given us our marching orders."
"No," Beth declined. "I need to stay here."
"Are you certain?" Rachel asked.
"You know Quentin better than anyone," Tim added. "Your insight might prove significant for the meeting."
"No, I must stay here," Beth said nervously.
Behind the wall, Beth felt a finger stroking through the hard brick and paneling, trailing down her spine. She knew this touch came from Quentin. She knew his touch all too well.
It was a harsh sign that his imprisonment was hanging on by a thread.
"Yes, Beth," the prisoner whispered silkily. "You deserve a better class of Collins than that rabble."
Sam Evans still wasn't used to flying. The supernatural abilities of a ghost to stream through walls – defy gravity – spooked him quite a bit.
Knowing you are dead is one thing. Getting used to it is quite another.
He was even more spooked when Bill Malloy pulled him up to the pitched roof of Collinwood. There, Sam was met by a large crowd of ghosts, assembling on the steeply angled roof as though it were the bleachers of a stadium.
Looking around, Sam was surrounded by a sea of recognizable faces. Why he'd spotted at least ten different men who looked uncannily like Roger Collins. Albeit some had facial hair or bushy sideburns to distinguish themselves. And they all wore period clothes. One was even dressed like a beggar.
Sam amended his previous opinion; sharing the company of a dozen Roger Collinses is surely what hell is truly like.
At least Sam could distract himself by marveling at the multicolored spectrum of Liz Stoddards. Some wore blue, others yellow, some green.
A few Carolyns were sprinkled in as well.
"What the hell is this?" Sam whispered to Bill.
"The bigwigs," Bill whispered back, a little confused. "You did say you wanted to meet them, right?"
Sam continued staring at the large crowd. He'd just noticed a few familiar faces from the village. But like with these Collins ghosts, they only looked like the people he knew.
Sam really was getting spooked now.
Bill finally picked up on his discomfort, patting Sam's shoulder in sympathy.
"I was shocked at first, too... but you'll get used to it. Still don't know how they tell each other apart, though."
Sam nonchalantly brushed off a strand of seaweed as Bill patted him on the shoulder. He was still too much in awe to react much.
Bill just chuckled to himself.
Some commotion on the west side of the massive roof captured Sam's attention.
"What is this mad woman doing here?" one of the Rogers blustered loudly.
Curious at the commotion, Sam floated up a few more feet to try to get a better angle. But he needn't have bothered.
A wide circle of ghosts had retreated from around two gypsies and a frightening looking woman wearing a raggy black dress. She had long wild red hair, feral eyes and a gaunt face. Her manic expression plainly read madness.
She tightly clutched two tattered filthy dolls in her protective arms.
"Oh, how long were you ved to Quentin?" one of the gypsies, a brassy woman with long black hair, scolded. "How many of hiz children have you carried, zir?
At this, the loud-mouthed Roger styled ghost looked scandalized.
"She iz Quentin's wife. Juz because she iz tied to one of zee worst of you lot, doz not make her any lezz a Collins!"
"But what could she possibly contribute?" the Roger looking ghost scoffed. "The wretched child doesn't even know where she is."
The mad woman regarded her detractor, her eyes giddy but unnervingly defiant. "Oooh – I know where I am, good sir! And I know my Quentin. He is a beast! He feeds on you loathsome Collinses!"
The mad woman attempted to lunge on her detractor, but the gypsy woman and the other gypsy, a portly man, held her back.
"Remove her at once!" demanded the Collins who was not Roger. "That woman is a menace."
"No, she is my guest," a feminine voice cut in, capturing everyone's attention.
Josette Collins materialized on one of the high chimneys, perched regally atop it. Her pearly white gown and veil shone beautifully as gray sunlight filtered through her form.
" This woman was married to a Collins. It may not have been an auspicious pairing, but I am in no position to judge her. And neither are you, Edward."
"Why, thank thee, your Highness." With childish giggles, the mad woman performed a dainty curtsy.
"Thank you, Mizz Josette," the gypsy woman replied gratefully.
"You need not thank me, Mrs. Rokosi. It was most gracious of you to agree to attend this meeting. I'm certain Jenny appreciates your presence as well.
"Is the artist Sam Evans present?" Josette addressed the crowd from atop the high chimney.
"Ay-up, he's right here." Bill grabbed Sam's shoulder and brought him to the chimney.
As he got closer, Sam got a proper look at the village's most infamous ghost. Her face was obscured by her veil, which was transparent. But, as they were all ghosts, her face was also transparent.
From what he could make out, Sam thought he recognized a little of Maggie's likeness.
Josette was apparently important enough to have an entourage. They hovered protectively around her chimney. One was a prim looking woman in a regency dress. She had long curly red hair and looked strikingly like Dr. Julia Hoffman.
The other was a short (but not too short) husky man wearing a regency era suit. Uncomfortably enough, this man seemed to be a clean-shaven version of Sam himself.
"Oh, Mollie, I'm glad you aren't here to see the sellout version of me," Sam bemoaned.
"I think he looks rather dashing, darling," Mollie's voice whispered to him.
Someone tugged on Sam's hand. "Hello, Mr. Evans."
Glancing down, Sam found little Sarah Collins grinning up at him.
Out of all the Collins ghosts present, Sam was actually happy to see this little girl. She was instrumental in rescuing Maggie after Barnabas Collins abducted her.
"Is Maggie still taking care of my doll?" Sarah asked.
"Yes, she keeps your dolly safe and snug in her room," Sam replied.
"Thank you for joining us today, Monsieur Evans." Josette addressed from up the chimney.
Her gentle but commanding voice silenced the chatter amongst the ghosts.
"Yes... um, thanks," Sam hesitantly replied.
"We were informed you requested this gathering." One of those Roger Collins looking ghosts spoke, as he floated near the chimney.
This particular ghost wore a military uniform. Sam recognized this one as Joshua Collins, the man he'd clashed with earlier, along with Millicent.
Sam squared his shoulders. He wasn't about to let himself be cowed by some dead fat cat. "I wanted to have a word or two with someone in the know. I never meant to put on a recital for an entire horde of Collinses."
"That was my doing, I'm afraid," Josette spoke over the enraged objections of Joshua Collins. "Your involvement in this situation has changed our paradigm completely."
"Huh?" Sam was confused, but also happy to ignore Joshua Collins.
"Yeah," Bill added. "What do you mean?"
Josette raised her voice so that everyone could hear her clearly. "Until now, our strategy has been reactionary. That ends today."
The assembled ghosts all seemed to hold their nonexistent breath.
Sam was just glad that someone finally had a plan.
"Monsieur Evans will take the fight directly to our enemy."
"Excuse me?" the dead painter croaked.
"Sam's brave enough, but he already died to this warlock once," Bill hastily added his confused two cents.
He wasn't alone. A loud chorus of ghosts all spoke up at once.
"Let her speak, blast it!" the raspy voice of a large ghost blared across the roof.
Josette waited an extra moment to make sure everyone quieted down before continuing. "No one expects Monsieur Evans to vanquish the warlock."
Sam's relief was immediate, but he was still confused.
It was Bill who asked, "What do you mean, Miss? I told Sam here he should come to us for help."
Josette's face was obscured but she nodded in confirmation. "And so, we will help. Only, it seems as though our one path to victory is to help each other."
"What do you think I can do?" Sam finally asked.
He wasn't angry yet, but he was getting tired by all of the vagueness.
"You are the painter of Monsieur Quentin's portrait, correct?" Josette asked knowingly.
Sam shook his head in frustration. "What's so important about Quentin Collins anyway? What do all you ghosts, warlocks and pixies find so fascinating about the guy?"
"Quentin is sealed away in the West Wing," one of the Roger ghosts piped up, the one wearing the brown tweed suit called Edward.
"He cannot be trusted," a well to do ghost looking like Willie added.
(That one had Sam's eyebrows climbing toward his forehead.)
"Quentin is a dark and vengeful spirit," Josette said from top of the chimney. "He was like many Collins men. Conceited and shallow minded in his youth. Where he differed was his fascination with the occult."
Sam snorted in restrained amusement, but Josette paid him no mind.
"This proclivity lead him down a dark path that ended in 1897 with the warlock who took your life -"
"So, you're saying Fenn-Gibbon is more than a hundred-years-old?" Sam interrupted.
Josette's veiled head nodded in confirmation. "I suspect a great deal older. The gypsies have stories that date back many more hundreds of years."
"And in all that time he never thought to take up painting himself?" Sam bemoaned.
"None who cross paths with him are glad for it," Josette consoled. "But you lost as much to that hateful old wretch as anyone."
"Not really," Sam insisted. "Now my daughter is mixed up with this monster. That's why I'm here. I was hoping you could protect her."
"If you truly wish to stop this warlock, you must help us keep him away from Quentin," Edward Collins stressed.
"But Quentin is hell bent on breakin' the seal we got 'im under," a strange cockney woman cut in.
"We must prevent that from happening," a female ghost looking like Liz Stoddard added.
"This is where you offer your assistance, Monsieur Evans," Josette said politely.
"Look," Sam started. "This bastard murdered me and broke my daughter's heart. I can't begin to explain how much I'd love to bash in his shaggy lisping face. But what can I possibly do to stop a warlock from busting your dark vengeful ghost out of this mausoleum? I am a painter, not an exorcist."
"Exactly," Josette exclaimed. "The portrait you painted of Quentin Collins. That is the key."
"The one Fenn-Gibbon killed me for," said Sam.
"Indeed," said Josette. "We'd like for you to distort it."
"Distort it?" Sam frowned.
"Yes, to reduce its power and that warlock's influence," Josette replied.
Sam held up his hand, halting the legendary ghost. "I'm going to have to stop you right there. Now I'm sure magic powers and whatnot are quite common in your circles. But my paintings are made of paint, canvas and hard work. No magic, voodoo or pixie dust. Sorry if you were confused about that."
The audience of dead Collinses and hangers-on were all stony faced. But Josette laughed delightedly from behind her veil.
"You may have been French in another life, Monsieur."
No one, including Sam, knew what to say to that.
"You are selling yourself short, I'm afraid," said Josette. "Magic can come from surprising places. Works of art are actually quite common in occult circles. Serving as talismans, wards and all manner of inspiration."
Sam knew when he was in over his head. He stayed quiet.
"Portraits in particular have been instrumental in this family's dark history," Josette continued. "Nefarious individuals have used them to preserve their lives and enhance their power. Sadly, yours was not even the first to be perverted for such ends."
Sam couldn't help himself any longer. "Are you saying my painting charges up dark magic?"
"No, Monsieur. I am explaining that dark magic users have attached their magic to it. More like a parasite than anything else. In your case, the portrait you created is being used somewhat like a voodoo doll, a stand-in for a living body. By controlling the portrait, you can effectively hold the subject hostage."
Sam had his eyes closed, rubbing his brows rather strongly. In a miserable croak, he uttered, "Nothing you said made sense, but at least it explains what he's after."
"Quentin Collins was my brother in life," a Liz Stoddard looking ghost in a black dress explained to Sam. "And this warlock Fenn-Gibbon – his actual name is Count Petofi."
Sam balked. "Count Petofi?"
"Yes," said the ghost woman.
Sam did not know her name.
"Petofi always had a strange sort of empathy with Quentin," she continued. "It's a long and fantastical story. But it's a cursed situation. He commissioned you to paint Quentin's portrait so he could entrap Quentin's essence. He wants to free Quentin, but only for his own purposes. This freedom will not be on my brother's terms. Petofi will control him.
"Petofi is an old fiend to the Collins family. We do not wish for him to entrap Quentin."
"I grant you that I painted that portrait," Sam amended. "But I'm a ghost now. How can I alter a portrait when I'm no longer alive?"
"Ya can distort that portrait."
Sam shot his eyes upward, seeing a burly ghost in brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt. He was hovering right beside Josette.
Sam thought he looked strikingly like Bill's murderer Matthew Morgan. It was unnerving.
But looking up at the man, Sam sensed something in his demeanor that distinguished him completely from Matthew Morgan. There was something earnest and genuine about him. Hardly someone capable of committing a senseless murder.
Another give away was that Bill didn't flinch or protest at this man's presence.
He must be all right.
"I have distorted a wicked portrait awready," the man proudly boasted.
Sam noticed the large ghost carefully pronouncing every syllable as he spoke.
"Yes, he has for me," Josette said rather fondly. "It greatly aided me in the past."
"Wicked portrait?" Sam was slightly offended.
"Ay, I can help ya," said the man in his thick raspy accent. "Muh name's Ben Stokes."
"Sam Evans," the artist introduced himself. "Should we start looking for this portrait?"
"Do not worry yourself," Edward Collins assured. "You shall see the portrait in due time."
Up on the chimney, Josette wondered how Barnabas was doing at the Old House.
How he and Julia were coping with that devilish phantom.
Barnabas and Julia still sat quietly on the armchairs in the Old House's parlor. The fire in the hearth still burned.
But it hardly dissipated the chill coming from the formally imprisoned ghoul. He waited patiently at the pillar entrance, for the reply to his query.
"You have been cooperative with our work," Julia finally broke the silence. "With the experiments."
"Yes, of course," said the ghoul. "But I've been, I think, justifiably curious about your witch. What is it about her that elicits such desperation? It's not everyday that summoning a warlock from the netherworld is considered the solution to a problem."
"She is a demon who callously destroyed a man and his family," Barnabas said seriously. "That's all you need to know."
"A dyed in the wool sadist?" the ghoul asked simply.
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"Where is she now?" the ghoul asked.
"Holed up in one of the houses on the grounds," Barnabas replied.
"Dangerous to let them get that close," the ghoul warned. "Maybe you should show me this house."
"I'm afraid the risk is too great," said Barnabas.
"Come now, Mr. Barnabas. Surely you know our kind have no real love for each other. Our Master doesn't encourage such warm sentiments. I am more than happy to watch them die. Especially if it serves my own ends. If you wish to vanquish this witch, knowledge will serve you better than caution."
"We have the experiments," Julia said pointedly.
"Yes, but your needles haven't killed her yet, have they?" the ghoul countered.
"No, but it is our best chance," Julia said stubbornly.
"And it shall be your weapon," the ghoul charmed. "As will I. I just wish to know our enemy. You have said more than once that observation is the basis of the tedious process you call science."
Barnabas considered his words. "I suppose you should know of her. But you are a mere tool in our battle with her. Not the weapon."
"I would say I fit more into the role of pawn," the ghoul said without malice.
In the forbidden corridor of the West Wing, Beth stared up at the rafters. She felt the looming presences of the ghosts straight up on the roof.
The smothering aura was beginning to recede.
Beth concluded their meeting had adjourned.
Through the convoluted tangle of energy, there was one ghost Beth instantly recognized. This presence was closely flanked by Magda and Sandor.
Beth lowered her eyes in both sorrow and regret as her old friend was laid to rest once more.
"Jenny..."
Inside his cell, Quentin also distantly felt Jenny's presence fading from this world.
"Ah, Jenny," he reminisced to himself. "The only woman I would call my bride."
Fittingly, the fruits of their lost and broken love may yet prove to be the key to his cell.
At the cottage on the Collins grounds, Chris was having a hyperactive snowball fight with Amy.
Tom watched them from inside, nursing a cooling cup of coffee next to the front window.
Amy was having the time of her life. Chris was certainly putting in an effort capering and prat-falling like a true vaudevillian thespian.
Amy, of course, was delighted.
When the holidays are over, he'll be off again, Tom thought resentfully. Falling off the face of the earth. And, of course, Amy is going to be devastated. It probably would've been better if he hadn't come back at all.
Tom winced at his own internal vitriol. He loved his brother, but he needed a lot more from him than he was getting.
I suppose the truth is I just resent his freedom.
Growing up had come fast for Tom. In hindsight, he wasn't sure he had been a willing participant.
The loud screeching of a telephone snuck up from behind, causing him to whirl around. The antique disconnected telephone was ringing again. This time, Tom was not frightened or even baffled by it. He realized on some level he'd been expecting this.
Crossing to the coffee table, he picked up the cup-shaped receiver.
"Quentin Collins."
"Yes I am, to whom am I speaking?"
"Tom Jennings. Now, tell me, how in the hell are you using this phone?"
"The universe works in mysterious ways," Quentin said cryptically.
Tom glared at the phone in annoyance. "The universe didn't jury-rig this phone. Who the hell are you really?"
Uproarious laughter was his immediate response.
Tom all but shouted into the receiver. "You sound more like a clown than a Collins. And I've never heard of any Quentins!"
Slowly the laughter died out.
"I suppose you don't sound like a Collins, either. But I won't hold it against you."
"There's something I want to know," Tom said steadily. He was tired of talking in circles. "Before you said we were connected. You, me and Amy. How are we..."
"We cannot forget the boy," Quentin interrupted in that same cryptic tone. "He may be more important than the girl. He knows where to look for me."
"Who?" Tom interrupted.
Another half manic chuckle was his response. "You know who."
"What." Tom had never been more mystified.
The euphoria of the fun-filled snowball fight had worn off. But Chris and Amy were still filled with energy.
The two were now frolicking. Catching up to the giggling child, Chris grabbed Amy from behind and lifted her up from the snowy ground. He spun her in circles high in the air, the girl laughing in delight.
Slowing his spins, Chris returned Amy's boot-clad feet to the snow.
Amy wheezed and giggled, while Chris tried to catch his breath.
"I'm not in good enough shape," Chris panted. "To survive being ten again."
"I'm happy you came, Chris," Amy said earnestly, looking up at him. "Are you staying for good?"
Chris' face fell. He looked away from her hesitantly.
Luckily for him, a new arrival conveniently saved him from answering her hopeful question.
Roger Collins, all bundled up in his tweed coat, trudged his way to the cottage on foot.
"Jennings!" he called by way of greeting. "I have an offer for you."
"I'm not Tom, Mr. Collins. I'm his twin brother Chris."
"Oh, is that right?" Roger reacted mildly.
"Yeah, I'm just visiting for Christmas," Chris explained.
"Oh, perhaps, maybe you might like to consider this offer, as well," said Roger. "It involves yule cheer and handsome payment."
Inside the cottage, Tom was still spellbound by the antique phone.
"Are you talking about David? So, he is involved with you?"
Tom didn't get to hear Quentin Collins' reply. At the sound of the front door opening, Tom reflexively hung up the old phone as quickly as a gunshot. He just as quickly, but rather clumsily, sat the phone back down on the coffee table.
Chris and Amy came into the cottage, catching sight of the awkward moment.
Amy's face instantly paled. "The phone rang again, didn't it?"
Chris was baffled by Amy's question and her tone. "Sweetie, that phone's a piece of junk. And you're a bit too young to be worried about receiving phone calls."
"I was just looking for something, kiddo," Tom swiftly lied.
Amy gave Tom a disbelieving look.
"Um, sooo." Chris veered to change the subject. He didn't know what they were alluding to, but he assumed it was personal. "Roger Collins stopped by. He offered us both paying work -"
"Knowing him, he probably wants me to let Amy climb up his chimneys and sweep them out for him," Tom cut in.
Chris and Amy both laughed. But Chris continued his explanation.
"Actually, he wants us to help out with his party. And if we both agree, he said Amy could come along, too."
Tom nodded appreciatively at Roger's unexpected humanity.
"I think it's a tempting offer," Chris concluded. "We could use the extra money."
"Amy is a guest, right?" Tom asked. "He doesn't expect her to carry trays or anything?"
"She's a guest," Chris replied. "She's supposed to wear a dress and everything."
Maybe I can learn more about this Quentin Collins, Tom thought. At least, this will give me an opportunity to talk to David.
"What do you think?" Chris broke into Tom's pondering. "Do you want to take the job?"
"Yeah," said Tom. "We could use the extra money."
It was mid-afternoon. In the foyer up at Collinwood, Willie and Maggie entered from the side door, taking a little break from their duties. Willie wrapped his arm affectionately around Maggie.
"I was thinkin' 'bout that warlock Barnabas and Julia brought up from hell," Willie whispered to her.
"You know, I forgot all about him." Maggie sighed.
Elizabeth came in from the study. "Maggie, are the caterers still skittering about?"
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Stoddard," Maggie replied, sympathetic to the house mistress' phobia. "But the Great Hall is just about ready for the party."
"Very well," said Elizabeth.
She visibly softened her attitude. "Maggie, you really don't need to work right now. I'm sure Roger's team can manage well enough on their own."
Elizabeth addressed Willie directly. "Why don't you take her over to Bangor for dinner. My treat. You can think of it as a Christmas gift."
"Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard," Maggie said gratefully. "But I really need to work."
"Are you sure?" Elizabeth pressed gently.
"Yes, I need the distraction," Maggie murmured. "And I have Willie here with me."
Willie still had her wrapped in his arm.
Before Elizabeth could respond, Vicki came into the foyer from upstairs.
"Hello, Maggie," Vicki gently called as she descended the staircase.
"Hello, Vicki," Maggie replied.
A rapping came from the front doors.
"I'll get it." Vicki went straight for the doors, finding Prof. Stokes outside on the doorstep.
"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Winters," Prof. Stokes said brightly. "Pardon my rather prompt arrival. My lectures have concluded early today."
Vicki could plainly tell by reading his face that the educator was anxious to return to Collinwood.
"That's fine, professor." Vicki invited him in and shut the doors.
"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Stoddard," Prof. Stokes greeted as he shrugged off his winter coat. "And hello Mr. Loomis and Miss Evans."
"Hello," Maggie replied.
"I have found a few obscure family records from the relevant time frame," Elizabeth said to the professor, as Vicki took his coat and hung it on the coat rack.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Stoddard," Prof. Stokes replied graciously.
"There is something I'd like to show you first," Vicki told the professor anxiously. "It's upstairs. Burke and I found it this morning."
"Where is Burke?" Elizabeth asked.
"He's helping David with his homework," Vicki replied.
"Please, show me what you found," Prof. Stokes urged.
Vicki led him up the staircase.
Once they were gone, Elizabeth returned her attention to Maggie and Willie. "I'm going to go for a walk on the grounds."
"A-A walk?" Willie stammered.
"Yes, I could use the air," said Elizabeth.
And escape from Roger's needless circus, her thoughts added.
"You two are welcome to join me."
"We're just taking a short break, Mrs. Stoddard," Maggie explained. "We have to get back to work now."
"It shouldn't take very long," Elizabeth persisted.
"Thank you," Maggie politely declined. "But maybe some other time."
"Very well," Elizabeth accepted.
"Are ya sure you can get 'round in all that snow?" Willie asked courteously.
"I'll be fine, Willie," Elizabeth assured.
I was playing in snowfalls deeper than this before you were born.
"If ya need anything, Mrs. Stoddard, just let us know," Willie offered.
"I will," Elizabeth replied.
With that, the young pair returned to their duties.
Elizabeth slid on her winter boots and securely buttoned up her green coat.
Stepping outside, she felt the crisp winter air.
A sly voice whispered, "Well, if those mopey punks won't go for a walk with you, Liz, I'll take you up on your offer."
Bill Malloy's voice earned a warm smile from the matriarch.
"Let's go, Bill."
Elizabeth ventured across the property, heading for the snowy path in the woods. The one Barnabas helpfully trampled down on his visit earlier.
She felt Bill's invisible presence right beside her. It had been a pleasant stroll so far.
"Have you been watching Jason?" Elizabeth asked conversationally.
"I've been busy with other things," Bill's disembodied voice admitted. "But last I checked, he looked like he was trying to scuba dive in a mug of ale."
Elizabeth scoffed at that.
"You must be looking forward to having your first real Christmas with Vicki."
"Yes, I am," Elizabeth admitted.
After spreading a small grin, she bluntly added, "But first, we have to suffer through Roger's party."
Bill's chuckling danced in her ears.
Turning onto a new path deeper into the forest, the trees were so closely packed together now, the snow was only four or five inches deep.
Elizabeth nearly collided into someone. Slightly stumbling on her feet, Elizabeth took in the stranger. A heavy-set man with bushy hair and a matching beard. He wore owlish spectacles and a long black coat.
His gloved hands clutched to an envelope.
Elizabeth recognized him. "Mr. Fenn-Gibbon."
"Hello, Mrs. Stoddard," Fenn-Gibbon said pleased. "How fortuitous for us to meet like this."
"Dammit," Bill whispered to himself.
Next Chapter: Chance Encounters