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It was Christmas and, like a Dickensian penitent, Arthur was surrounded by ghosts.
"I saw a fox yesterday," he told Lucy at breakfast. There was no response - because, of course, there was no one there. "I don't think I shall join the hunt this year," he continued nevertheless. "I know you don't approve." And he wasn't ready to wear red again yet, nor to go out riding with any particular exertion.
Dressing was a challenge. There was something grotesque about mourningwear on Christmas. Whom was he trying to impress with these ostentatious outward shows of grief? But there was something equally sickening in festively donning his gay apparel - playing a part, smiling at the appropriate moments, living the expected lie. There would be parties all over London tonight. He could wear black and attract sympathetic looks and empty condolences from the creme of society, or dress to the season and be once more England's most eligible bachelor. Or he could stay home and merely haunt his own servants.
His valet had laid out the black for him, the same as every day. He let himself be dressed in it without complaint. The same as every day.
Morning post. There was something poetic about a stack of unopened Christmas cards, a tangible marker of a world slightly off ... but he opened them all anyway, read the cheerful platitudes, arranged them on the mantle with the other decorations. He'd even sent off the usual packet of cards himself in the appropriate time, signing them with his father's name as easily as if it were his own. Which it was.
"The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined."
Arthur felt his throat close up unexpectedly, and his hand holding the latest card trembled. He had broken the seal without looking at it, but the signatures at the bottom were less of a surprise than the sudden tears. It was good to be reminded that there were people who understood after all - who like him dwelt in the land of the shadow of death. He blotted his eyes and went out.
In Town, the streets were filled with laughter and light and music. He gave money to carolers and smiled at the happy children, but even though it buffeted and pressed in on him he felt himself outside it all, watching as a dispassionate observer through a pane of glass. Young lovers walked arm in arm, pointing with delight at the shop windows, a lady with too many hats scolding an over-eager and sugar-sticky child, students briefly freed from their cloisters boasting and challenging each other to some entertainment of their own making. Life being fully lived, all around him but not quite touching, as he strolled silently among them trailing ghosts.
There, in the window, the very thing - a tree ornament, a little bird cleverly wrought in glass, exactly Lucy's style. He had purchased it for her, pleased with the find, and stepped back out into the street before he remembered he had no one to give it to. No, there had to be someone... His father's butler had been diligent about finding new situations for the displaced Westenra maids while they had been abroad. He wrote on the paper wrapping: To Mariella, from Father Christmas. The girl must be nearly 12 now - well of course, it had only been three months. Three months? No that couldn't be right. It had been forever. It had been yesterday.
When he had deposited his package on the appropriate doorstep, he stood on the platform waiting for his train and watching the snow fall. He let three pass him. There was nowhere in particular he needed to be, no duties to perform, social or familial. He was free to do as he pleased. It was a holiday, after all.
Another homeward train, another demurral. Home wasn't where he was meant to be today. His household would be making merry by their own lights, as well they should, which his presence could only darken. The day off, such as it was, was the best gift he could give them. Nor was he meant to be in Town, he had discovered. He could visit Lucy, or his parents, he supposed, but that felt wrong as well. It was Christmas, he ought to at least try to spend it among the living.
When the stationmaster announced the arrival of a westbound train he boarded it just to see where it would take him.
"Newbury, Taunton, Exeter St. David's!" Arthur shook himself out of his doze. Well, now he knew where he was going at least. He watched the countryside roll past outside the window. The snowclad landscape was blessedly free of ruddy sunset hues... because, of course, it was not far past midday. Today was going to be longer than yesterday had been, and the watery December sunlight illumined a panorama as charming as any by Breughel. A splendid day for skating. He wondered what it would take to entice Jack Seward onto a pair of ice skates. More persuasive prowess than he could muster on his own, he was sure. He had never been the chief instigator among the three of them.
It wasn't until he was off the train that he realized he had no idea of the address. It was written down somewhere he was sure. On that envelope from earlier he hadn't thought to keep, for instance. But there were plenty of opportunities to ask directions and he reached the Cathedral just as Choral Evensong was beginning. Exeter was no less festive than London had been, but somehow not as oppressively so. Maybe it was the novelty of the setting, or maybe the walk was doing him good. With the music at his back he wandered the nearby streets reading every sign and painted window until he found the one emblazoned with the name of a dead man and rang the bell.
The door opened and Mrs. Harker stood there beaming up at him. "Arthur! You made it!" and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
"I was in the neighborhood," he lied, returning the embrace, "and I thought you might be in want of a goose. Merry Christmas!"
She laughed. "You are not the first to have such an idea. Come in, come in, everyone else is here already."
He followed her inside looking about wonderingly. Harker was on the sofa, his arm still around the spot his wife had just vacated, listening somewhat dazedly to Van Helsing pontificating effulgently on some topic or other, while at a virginal in the corner Jack was playing Adeste Fidelis. The table was laid out for six.
It was like a weight off his chest that he hadn't even realized was there. Suddenly it was more comfortable to smile, knowing that no one would expect him to, nor probe when he didn't. That no one need ask about his mourning garb, for they were blackclad as well. That he himself could stop performing and, for a little while, simply be.
Ghosts and all.