yes." He returned his attention to the specter-o-meter. "My diligent pursuit will explain away my persistent presence and the fact that I might be seen following you doggedly around town."
His presence did have to be explained away somehow, and a persistent suitor was better than a ghost chaser, she supposed. But there was always Justina Markham.
Who had apparently told no one but Douglas Hunt that the spirits of Alistair and Viola lived on in this house. If the rumors of ghostly hauntings had begun, Lucien would have heard from his landlady. And Eve would have had people knocking on her door by sunset last night. Curious.
"If we're going to track down the reverend, perhaps you should get dressed," Lucien suggested absently.
Chapter 8
In the past Eve had always been so objective when it came to a haunting that Lucien could not believe her stubborn insistence that in this case he was wrong. She had either lost all sense of neutrality, since the haunted house in question was hers, or she had changed considerably in the past two years.
Then again, perhaps she simply enjoyed arguing with him. If he said the sky was blue, would she insist it was actually as green as the plain day dress she wore? If he informed her that the month was October, would she argue that it was really November?
They hadn't said much on their trek to Plummerville, taking a route he was getting disgustingly familiar with. It wasn't an unbearably long walk, but Eve did live at the edge of town. Thirty years ago, it had surely been even more secluded. And there Viola had been, perhaps lonely and too far from her friends for her liking. Did she feel isolated in that cottage her husband had built for her? Trapped? Was she so achingly lonely that she was easy prey for any man? He had a hard time seeing Viola as a hussy, as Miss Gertrude had so unkindly called her, but in truth they knew very little about her. And if she had been truly lonely, anything was possible.
Lucien knew what it was like to be lonely. As a child, even his own mother had shunned him. In fact, she had been afraid of him, and as a child he had not understood why. Not until much later, years after her death, and even then understanding had been difficult. The mind of a child could not grasp why a mother would look at her own son that way, why she would sometimes flinch when he came near.
And now... spirits often visited their loved ones, watched over them unseen, reached out a silent, invisible hand of comfort. Lucien saw these spirits. He felt their presence and the warm light of love. He never saw his own mother. Was she afraid of him still?
He had lived his life as an oddity, and at one point he had convinced himself he was insane. It was a logical explanation, and at the time—he'd been sixteen, orphaned and confused, and his stepfather of three years wanted nothing to do with him—he'd actually preferred the concept of insanity to admitting that the ghosts who presented themselves to him were real.
Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, teaching him how to control his gift, convincing him that it was a gift. And still, Lucien was always searching for a way to scientifically explain away his abilities. He was convinced that somehow scientific proof would make things better. That if he could explain what he saw in a logical and methodical manner, he would no longer be considered an oddity.
He owed Hugh so much, more than he could ever repay. The man had quickly become the father Lucien had never known. Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, taught him how to use what he'd been given, and introduced him to Eve.
The only time in his life that he had truly not been lonely had been his too-short time with Eve. She didn't see what he did—at least not usually—and still she understood. She was his in a way he had never expected a woman to be; she had the power to push away the loneliness forever... and he had ruined everything by letting
His presence did have to be explained away somehow, and a persistent suitor was better than a ghost chaser, she supposed. But there was always Justina Markham.
Who had apparently told no one but Douglas Hunt that the spirits of Alistair and Viola lived on in this house. If the rumors of ghostly hauntings had begun, Lucien would have heard from his landlady. And Eve would have had people knocking on her door by sunset last night. Curious.
"If we're going to track down the reverend, perhaps you should get dressed," Lucien suggested absently.
Chapter 8
In the past Eve had always been so objective when it came to a haunting that Lucien could not believe her stubborn insistence that in this case he was wrong. She had either lost all sense of neutrality, since the haunted house in question was hers, or she had changed considerably in the past two years.
Then again, perhaps she simply enjoyed arguing with him. If he said the sky was blue, would she insist it was actually as green as the plain day dress she wore? If he informed her that the month was October, would she argue that it was really November?
They hadn't said much on their trek to Plummerville, taking a route he was getting disgustingly familiar with. It wasn't an unbearably long walk, but Eve did live at the edge of town. Thirty years ago, it had surely been even more secluded. And there Viola had been, perhaps lonely and too far from her friends for her liking. Did she feel isolated in that cottage her husband had built for her? Trapped? Was she so achingly lonely that she was easy prey for any man? He had a hard time seeing Viola as a hussy, as Miss Gertrude had so unkindly called her, but in truth they knew very little about her. And if she had been truly lonely, anything was possible.
Lucien knew what it was like to be lonely. As a child, even his own mother had shunned him. In fact, she had been afraid of him, and as a child he had not understood why. Not until much later, years after her death, and even then understanding had been difficult. The mind of a child could not grasp why a mother would look at her own son that way, why she would sometimes flinch when he came near.
And now... spirits often visited their loved ones, watched over them unseen, reached out a silent, invisible hand of comfort. Lucien saw these spirits. He felt their presence and the warm light of love. He never saw his own mother. Was she afraid of him still?
He had lived his life as an oddity, and at one point he had convinced himself he was insane. It was a logical explanation, and at the time—he'd been sixteen, orphaned and confused, and his stepfather of three years wanted nothing to do with him—he'd actually preferred the concept of insanity to admitting that the ghosts who presented themselves to him were real.
Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, teaching him how to control his gift, convincing him that it was a gift. And still, Lucien was always searching for a way to scientifically explain away his abilities. He was convinced that somehow scientific proof would make things better. That if he could explain what he saw in a logical and methodical manner, he would no longer be considered an oddity.
He owed Hugh so much, more than he could ever repay. The man had quickly become the father Lucien had never known. Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, taught him how to use what he'd been given, and introduced him to Eve.
The only time in his life that he had truly not been lonely had been his too-short time with Eve. She didn't see what he did—at least not usually—and still she understood. She was his in a way he had never expected a woman to be; she had the power to push away the loneliness forever... and he had ruined everything by letting
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