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So it had happened. They’d both gone mad.
10
The Haunted Wood
They’d planned to meet in her penthouse at The Pearl around eight that evening. At five ’til, Regan sat on the chaise in the sitting room to wait for Arthur. Upstairs in her bedroom hung the possibly haunted portrait of Lord Malcolm, which was why she waited in the sitting room, not wanting to be alone with it.
A knock on the door. She went to it at once, certain it was Arthur. She opened the door to find a waiter in a white jacket, carrying wine in a bucket.
“Lord Godwick ordered wine,” the young man said.
“Wonderful,” Regan said, “bring it in.”
He carried in the bottle and two glasses from the hotel kitchen with little faux pearl charms on the stems. The waiter set the glasses on the fireplace mantel and uncorked the bottle.
“Interesting artwork,” the waiter said.
Hanging above the fireplace was a print reproduction of an oil painting—an uncanny scene of a woman running through a dark forest, a vague ghostly figure behind her, imprisoned in a tree but escaping it, seemingly following her.
“A Lizzie Siddal print,” she said. “She was Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s muse, working class but very beautiful. She could have been a painter in her own right if she hadn’t…ah, well. Rossetti rather took over her life.”
The waiter nodded. “Such a shame.”
“Rossetti once gave the poor woman pneumonia by making her lie in a bath of cold water for hours while he painted her. They married eventually, but she died very young. Only thirty-three. Painter, poet…she was terribly talented. And then snuffed out like a candle. I think that’s supposed to be Death in her painting. That’s what’s haunting her.”
The young man gazed on the painting and she saw he had darkly intelligent eyes.
“No,” he said, “it’s not Death. It’s her. That ghost looks like a shadow of her. She’s haunting herself.”
Regan moved closer to the print, studied it carefully. The ghost did somewhat resemble the running woman.
He smiled and met her eyes. “But what do I know? I’m only here to pour the wine.” He offered her a glass. “Enjoy, Lady Ferry,” he said with an elegant bow then made his way to the door.
“Thank you… I’m sorry, you must be new, and I haven’t learned your name yet.”
“John,” he said and flipped his lapel over to show her his name tag.John Noone.
“Welcome to The Pearl, John.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” he said, opening the door. He turned back and glanced at the painting over the fireplace again. “You’ve got a bit of Lizzie Siddal in you, I think.”
“You do?”
“Both of you were painters. Same eyes, too. As Rossetti said, ‘Eyes as of the sea and sky on a grey day.’”
She stared at him. “Never expected a waiter to quote Dante Gabriel Rossetti poetry at me.”
“Yes, but I’m not your ordinary waiter, Lady Ferry. Enjoy. It’s pomegranate wine,” he said. “If you’ve never had it before, you’re in for a treat.”
He bowed again and left, shutting the door behind him.
Regan had never had pomegranate wine before, but as soon as she heard the name she knew she wanted to try it. Very romantic of Arthur to send wine up to her. She lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. The scent was strong but not too powerful, velvety and seductive, sweet but too sweet and utterly delicious. She took a sip and it tasted as good as it smelled. She took another sip and sighed with pleasure. Arthur had excellent taste in wine. Surprising, since he so rarely drank in her presence.
She was about to take another drink when she heard a familiar buzzing sound. Her phone. She had a message.
Almost there,Arthur had written.Hit accident traffic. So sorry. Don’t start the madness without me.
She smiled. She would never start the madness without him. Only the drinking.
