The Haunting - Chapter 15
Spring 1893
The key jammed on the first try. For a brief moment of panic, Richard Castle was afraid he would be unable to enter his own house. So desperate was he to return home, he was even willing to consider calling for a locksmith. However, the valet had left an envelope in his letterbox with the key he had loaned the lad, and since his luggage was not strewn across the front steps, it was logical to assume that the lock still worked as it should. He retracted his key, brushed the grooves and edges against his overcoat, and tried again. This time his endeavor was met with success. The key slid past the tumblers, and he gave it a turn, allowing himself a small sigh of relief when he heard the bolts rotated back and the satisfying click of the lock opening. He entered the foyer in a hurry, nearly tripping over the luggage on the floor.
"Katherine!"
He shouted her name, wishing and praying that he would encounter an indomitable chill to the interior air of the brownstone. But there was no chill. The room was comfortably temperate. Castle stood there for a long moment, breathing harshly, chest rising and falling with each gasp of air. His eyes strained for the faint sobbing Jennifer Ryan had described, but alas, he heard nothing but the quiet whine of the wind from outside.
The brownstone was silent.
Castle sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging with disappointment. He honestly did not know what he had been expecting. Perhaps Jennifer had been mistaken, and she had only heard the weeping of some young lady in a neighboring brownstone. His eyes dropped to the floor, and he stared hard at the rug, working at calming his breaths. Licking his lips anxiously, he wiped the sweat of his brow with a handkerchief, and trudged dejectedly into the lounge, ignoring his luggage for the time being.
He collapsed in his favorite armchair, and stared blankly at the mantle above the fireplace. He gazed at the only photograph he had of his late mother. His lips tugged up as he recalled some fond memories from his youth. Martha Rodgers. She had been a great dame. Oh, how he missed her. His heart ached with sadness and regret. And like the scared little boy he had once been, he craved the comforting embrace of his mother.
XXX
It was his birthday. And it was the worse birthday he could remember. A week had past since Castle's return to New York, and he had yet to encounter any proof that his beloved phantasm had returned as well. Everything suggested that her departure had been permanent and final. The thought alone made for a depressing birthday. The Ryans had tried cheering him up, hosting him for dinner. And it had eased the sadness in his heart, if only for a little while. Sarah Grace was a happy little girl, and he could not help but be enraptured with her innocence to the harsh realities of the world. It did him good to see the baby, to see that life really did provide such miracles. But what little joy the visit had brought to his heart faded the second he stepped back into the empty and silence of the brownstone.
He poured himself a brandy, and collapsed into his favorite armchair, letting his mind wander.
When he was younger, Castle had found it amusing that the date of his birth was on All Fools' Day. He had always been able to see the humor in it. But as the years past, he grew tired with the jesting and teasing from the other boys at the boarding schools his mother had sent him to.
He was a bastard.
It had all been quite scandalous, when his mother, a celebrated stage actress, had become pregnant out of wedlock. Though, miraculously, neither her career nor her reputation had suffered, as it would have for others in her situation. Martha Rodgers continued to be one of New York's most well-known and respected actresses—despite her bastard child—for the rest of her life. People had assumed that he had been a product of some illicit affair the famous theater actress had had with one of New York's wealthy elite, some had even suspected the mayor or another such high profile politician, but never once had she mentioned his father to him. He grew up not knowing anything of his paternal parentage.
On her deathbed, the great dame Martha Rodgers had confessed to him that she was not at all certain as to his father's identity. She had met him after a performance. Young and fresh, jubilant in her recent celebrity, she had still been somewhat naïve to the ways of the world, and had fallen for his charm and handsome good looks far quicker than she would care to admit. The only name he had ever given her was Alexander, hence the middle name on Castle's birth certificate.
"For that one night, I experienced a once in a lifetime kind of love," his mother had said, eyes watery with the memory. Her shaking hand had clutched his, and she stared up at him with firm conviction etched on her features. "Listen to me, kiddo. If you ever find such a love… never give it up. Promise me, Richard. Promise me that you would fight for such love if ever you find it."
And he had made that vow to his dying mother, all the while unable to keep the tears from leaking down his face. She had smiled at him, a proud, loving smile, and then with her eternal and unconditional love for her son on her lips, Martha Rodgers—the Great Dame of Theater—had passed away.
Richard Castle sat in his study, quiet and thoughtful, thinking of his mother, and the advice she had given him. She had been right about true love. He knew that now. He just had not expected to find it where he had—with a ghost. He sighed, and carded his fingers through his hair, disappointed in himself. The struggle to love someone that was not alive had been too much for him, and he had given up when he should have fought for them. He thought back to the months before their separation.
Everything had seemed fine. He had been happy. He had thought Katherine was happy. But now he was not too sure. Perhaps he had been mistaken in his interpretations of her moods.
Two months before he had walked in to find her gone with nothing but a goodbye letter left behind, Katherine had revealed to him that it was difficult to push across the boundary between their worlds and project herself onto the living plane. Castle had then understood that that was why her presence would be diminished or absent for several days after those nights that she would appear fully manifest before him. So, to make up for that, he had started sleeping in her bedroom.
It had seemed silly at the time, but it had helped him feel closer to her. In addition, they had pleasantly discovered that it was easier for her to assert herself within that room, something about it being the place her mortal existence had expired. It would be late in the night, when he was halfway between dreamland and wakefulness, that he would feel the right side of the bed dip, and her cold fingers would brush through his hair. She would curl her ethereal form around him, hugging him, and pressing soft kisses along his neck and shoulder.
Oh, how he had wanted her. He had desperately wished that they could partake in the same passion and love that those of flesh and blood enjoyed. His friends Kevin and Jennifer Ryan definitely enjoyed such pleasures, evident by Sarah Grace's arrival. It had made Castle's heart ached with longing. He wanted the same thing. But the only woman he could even fathom having children with was… dead.
Katherine had sensed his disappointed, and she had done her best to comfort him. She would use all her strength to stay materialized longer on those nights she was able to. She would distract him with touches and kisses, and soft words of love. But such things would only sustain him for so long. He did not regret falling in love with her. No. Never. Castle had just been struggling with accepting the realities of such a love. He believed—or more likely hoped—that in time, his dissatisfaction would fade and he would learn to accept and embrace what little he had. After all, it was far better to love than to never love at all. Right?
Letting out a sigh, Castle took one last sip of the brandy—Happy Birthday, Richard—and let the brooding thoughts of the last year wash away. He was tired. So very tired. He needed to sleep. He climbed up the stairs, gripping the bannister for support. When he reached the landing, he stopped himself. He stared in the direction of Katherine's bedroom, tempted—so very tempted—to go there and collapse on her bed, imagine that the past six months had not happened, and that the beautiful spirit that had once haunted his home had never left. But such things were only dreams.
He went to the master bedroom. He needed his own bed tonight. It hurt too much to sleep in there with the knowledge that he had given up the love of his life without a fight. Even now, after all this time, the grief was still too close to bear.
After undressing, and changing into some nightclothes, Castle crawled under the covers, seeking the blissful ignorance of dreams. But it did not come, eluding him like a fox from the hunting hounds. He tossed and turned, his head full of brooding and sad thoughts. He fought against them, raging in the night, until finally, in the end, he could do little but succumb to pure exhaustion, and fall into a sleep-like oblivion.
But such a slumber would not come.
Instead, thoughts and images of the hauntingly beautiful Katherine Houghton Beckett invaded his mind, all of her stripped gloriously bare before him. She was gorgeous—her legs long smooth, waist trim and slender, breasts firm and enticing. Everything about her was extraordinary. She was beckoning him to her, pleading to him with her gorgeous eyes to make love to her. He touched her, skimming his fingers along her long legs, reveling in the sensual curves of her thighs and hips as she opened for him, inviting. He gazed upon her in awe and wonder.
Castle was no stranger to fornication, but he had never made love before. He touched her lithe body, mapping her pale incandescent skin with his fingers, kissing her deeply as he sought connection. She arched up into him, and his jaw dropped in stunned disbelief when she flipped him over, straddling his hips with her legs.
He gazed up at her with awe, his eyes milking in all her beautiful curves. She was breathtaking in her nudity, like a goddess from myth. A strange aura buzzed around her. A soft blue light seemed to illuminate from her pale skin. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
Katherine smiled down at him, her luscious hair tumbling down around her shoulders. He could feel her press against him, taunting him with her own desire, and Castle groaned, wanting that connection, even in a dream. Katherine arched her back, leaning over him to kiss him. Her hands caressed his face and chest. One naughty hand traveled between them, her delicate fingers wrapping around him in a most intimate way, he almost blushed with embarrassment at brazenness of it.
Castle closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the realness of the dream. But when he opened his eyes, he was met with the stark coldness of reality. Katherine was not there, astride him in his bed. The room was empty and lifeless and he was alone in his desire. It had all been some cruel April Fools prank. The universe was probably laughing at him. He was not amused.
He dropped back against the pillows, silently cursing the unfairness of his unconsummated love. After six months apart, Castle now trusted in his love for Katherine. It was true. It was real. Being away from her, traveling the country had opened his mind to what really mattered. He did not need the physicality of it to know it was real, though he would be lying if he denied it would help. It would certainly have made it more bearable if he had been free to love her that way.
If ever he had a birthday wish, it was that.
He told himself it was not for self-centered reasons of wanting to seek pleasure from a woman. No. He refused to believe that. He just did not want sex from Katherine Beckett. He wanted to connect with her in the most intimate of ways, not just because it was pleasurable—though it would definitely be that—but because he loved her, and wanted to make her happy, give to her the joy her presence had given him.
It was a futile wish, he knew. It was not to be. With Katherine gone, he was left alone to wallow in his own self-pity and personal regret. It was foolish to even think such a dream could ever come true, especially now. It had only ever been a dream.
Sighing, Castle rolled over in bed, trying desperately to stifle his bodily desires. However, just after he had managed to diffuse his carnal wants and drift towards the blissful oblivion of sleep, he heard a sob echo through the brownstone.
He had been wrong.
He was not alone.
