The next day was All Hallows Eve. Nicole assembled us in the library for a ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of Claire’s Byrd’s birth.
It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since my car had tumbled down the mountainside. As I looked slowly around the room, my gaze moving from one familiar face to the next, I felt a poignant sense of impending loss. The strangers of a week ago had become friends. I’d leave something of myself behind at Wyrdhurst, and hold a place in my heart for each of them when I left.
Adam, wearing his own black jeans and cobalt-blue ribbed sweater, rested in relative comfort on the sofa, while Dickie Byrd fussed with a magnum of champagne. Nicole and Guy stood arm in arm before the hearth, gazing up at Claire.
Hatch had removed the clouded mirror from above the fireplace and replaced it with Claire’s portrait. Edward’s photograph, framed in silver, sat atop the mantelpiece, beside a delicate glass dome. Beneath the dome, pillowed on a cushion of black velvet, lay the gold-and-ruby ring, the ring that signified a bond that neither a world war nor a father’s twisted love could break.
I looked over my shoulder at the empty space above the rolltop desk. At Nicole’s behest, Hatch had filled the peepholes and delivered Josiah’s portrait to Blackhope’s bonfire pile, where it would burn amid much rejoicing on Guy Fawkes Day. Nicole could think of no more fitting punishment for the old devil than to consign his grim image to the flames.
Nicole planned to fill the space with an oil painting she’d commissioned, based on Edward’s photograph. Since the library had brought Claire and Edward together, she wanted them to reign over it for as long as Wyrdhurst stood.
The ceremony began with a heartfelt prayer for the repose of all young lovers’ souls, and continued with many glasses of Veuve Cliquot. The champagne brought a sparkle to Nicole’s eyes and gave her the courage to step forward.
“I know it’s a bit premature,” she said, “but since it’s our last day together, Guy and I wanted you all to know that we’ll have a special announcement to make as soon as my present marriage—if one can call it that—is annulled.” She blushed prettily as we offered sincere wishes for their happiness. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find another tenant for Wyrdhurst, Uncle Dickie. Guy’s being transferred to Germany in the spring.”
The savvy businessman was unfazed. He’d foreseen Nicole’s departure and mapped out Wyrdhurst’s future accordingly. For the next half hour, he regaled us with his plan to turn Josiah’s folly into a first-class hotel, with a spacious suite reserved for the family and plenty of jobs for the villagers.
“I’m going to clear Josiah’s muck out of the library,” he declared, “and replace it with Claire’s toys and clothes and books.” He gazed levelly at Adam. “We’ll call it the Claire Cresswell Museum of Childhood, in honor of Adam’s grandparents.”
“Claire Cresswell.” Adam repeated the name slowly, as if trying it out for the first time, then raised his glass to Dickie. “It’s a fine idea, sir.”
“Of course it is. I thought of it.” Dickie turned to me. “I don’t suppose you could persuade Claire to hang about for a bit, could you, Lori?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Claire doesn’t need to be here anymore.”
“Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone that Wyrdhurst isn’t haunted,” Dickie urged. “There’s nothing like a resident ghost to bring the tourists running.”
The party began to break up when Dickie, enamored of his new pet project, went off to call various high-powered pals in the hotel industry. A short time later, Nicole and Guy excused themselves to go for a drive up over the moors.
Before he departed, Guy took me aside. “I want to thank you for putting in a good word for me, after Jared left.”
“Don’t be silly,” I chided. “Dickie would have to be as blind as old Josiah not to see that you and Nicole were made for each other.”
“Still,” he said worriedly, “it must be a bit of a disappointment. Not every millionaire wants his niece to become a soldier’s wife.”
“This one does.” I took him by the arm and turned him to face Edward’s photograph. “You’re upholding an old family tradition.”
Guy’s smile, so seldom on display, was as brilliant as the sun and twice as warm. He snapped a salute to Edward and gave me a peck on the cheek before turning to his fiancée.
“Lori,” Nicole said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no to a lifetime supply of Claire’s Lace.”
“Done,” said Nicole, and enveloped me in a hug.
As they left the library, I could have sworn that the only thing keeping Nicole’s feet on the ground was Guy’s arm around her waist.
Finally, Adam and I were alone.
As I settled beside him on the sofa, I recalled the first time we’d sat there, when I’d shown him the inscription in Shuttleworth’s Birds and he’d told me about the young man who’d loved the moors. When I asked if he remembered the exchange, he nodded.
“I’ll never forget it,” he said “It was the first time I saw words written in Edward’s own hand. I can’t tell you what it did to me. Those few words brought my grandfather to life.”
“That’s what you do,” I said. “You tell the stories of the men who fought beside him. Your words bring them to life. He’d be so grateful to you.”
“No more grateful than I am to him.” Adam glanced at the ebony clock. “Your husband should be here soon.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll never believe where he’s taking me.”
“If it’s amusing, I don’t want to hear,” Adam said sternly. “My ribs are still quite tender.”
“We’re going to spend a few days in Edinburgh,” I said, with a perfectly straight face. “He wants to take in a session of the Scottish Parliament.”
Groans mingled with Adam’s laughter. He breathed shallowly for a moment, then reached out to take my hand. “You’re a sadist, Lori Shepherd. I can’t imagine why I ever thought your husband the most fortunate of men.”
I squeezed his hand. “Must be the concussion.”
Adam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it abruptly. “Lori,” he said, peering past my shoulder, “am I seeing things?”
I turned to follow his gaze. The ruby ring still lay on its velvet cushion beneath the delicate glass dome, but its twin was now in the portrait, adorning the third finger of Claire’s left hand.
“Is it the concussion?” Adam asked. “Or too much champagne?”
“I’d say it calls for more champagne.” I seized the bottle. “Don’t you get it? They’ve finally said their vows.”
Adam eyed me doubtfully. “Will anyone else be able to see it?”
“Are you kidding?” I refilled his glass and mine. “Everyone will. Claire’s been wanting to show off that ring for a long time.”
“Dear Lord,” Adam said faintly. “I can see Dickie’s adverts now. He’ll sell Wyrdhurst rings in the gift shop.”
“Along with Claire-and-Edward T-shirts…”
“…and tins of Claire’s Lace…”
“…and military teddies…”
“…and miniature models of the Devil’s Ring. Oh, my poor ribs,” Adam said, wincing as he chuckled. “Wyrdhurst will never be the same.”
Wyrdhurst would never be the same, I thought, and that wasn’t such a bad thing. For nearly a hundred years the house had enshrined a painful past. It was time to clear its corridors of cobwebs, throw open its hidden doors, take the bars from its windows, and fill its neglected garden with color and scent.
The ghosts of Wyrdhurst’s past had been laid to rest. Its future was with the living.