The Burning Bride

attention, but I was speechless. Astonished. I still am. I kept thinking “she’s become an angel— my Bianca’s an angel” and it made me so happy— of course she is! But then suddenly that song came into my head, that old song about the ghost. It seemed to fit exactly. It was twelve months and a day, last night— exactly twelve months and a day since Bianca died!’

  Mrs. Prothero gazed into her cup for a moment. ‘There you are, then,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s what put the dream into your head.’

  ‘Dream? It was so vivid! I saw her again!’

  ‘So you think it was a ghost? You were never superstitious, Silas.’

  ‘I’m not now— but she was so, so clear to me.’

  ‘And did she speak, like in the song?’

  ‘No— perhaps she meant to, but I think I must have passed out. When I woke up she was gone.’

  The lady looked dubious. ‘I can’t say I’ve had much to do with ghosts, but that sounds rather like a dream to me.’

  He tugged at his hair fretfully. ‘It’s too hard to believe that! But even if you’re right, even if it was a dream, it seemed so important.’

  ‘No doubt it was. Maybe you needed to see her again, one last time, to say goodbye?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything to her.’

  ‘Perhaps you did, even so.’ She took his hand. ‘How does it make you feel, Silas?’

  ‘At first I was elated, as I said— I started running down the hill to tell you. But when I thought of that song— of a poor ghost, not an angel— I began to feel sad. Lost. I had to get back here as soon as possible, back to familiar things. Now that I’ve stopped and sat down, it’s worse. I think of her and I wish—. And that’s the worst part. Wishing is useless now.’

  ‘Silas, Silas, you’re worn out, anyone can see that. Not just from running around the countryside, either. Stay here with me until you feel stronger. In fact, I insist on it, for a couple of days at the very least. It won’t be quiet, I’m afraid— I’m hosting a wedding on Saturday, and most of the guests are sleeping over this week— but they needn’t bother you, and I’d be happier knowing where you are. Now, now, no objections. You can have your old room— I’ve already made the bed.’

  He smiled his thanks, and made an effort to rally himself. ‘Whose wedding?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you remember Phillip Pevensey? You used to play together as boys.’

  ‘Phil! Has he really managed to nag someone into marrying him?’

  ‘Phil is fully Phillip, nowadays, as I’m sure he’ll remind you. His fiancé is a sweet, timid little thing called Daphne. Lovely face, but rather pale. I think she has her hair a touch too blonde, and it drains her colour. Anyway, they’re having the ceremony in the village, and coming back here for the reception. We’re doing it all ourselves— the food, the flowers, the music, everything— a proper homemade country wedding. That’s why half the guests are arriving early— they’re the workforce.’

  ‘Lucky them— lucky you, Mrs. P, to take on all the trouble. You really are a fairy godmother.’

  ‘Fairy godmothers get to call the shots, as far as I remember,’ she sighed. ‘In this case our Prince Charming’s wishes are our command. He has lists, accounts, timetables— honestly, if he asks me to double-check a receipt one more time, I’ll cut off my ears with a cake knife.’

  Silas smiled. ‘Phillip’s not so different from the old Phil, then. I remember the two of us building a tree house beside the river one summer. We quarrelled because I wouldn’t build it exactly his way— and the next morning he crept down there and dismantled the whole thing, saying he’d rather have no tree house at all than a badly built one.’

  ‘And you gave him a black eye for it, Silas. I’ll never forget what his mother said to me when she found out. That was the last summer he ever stayed here, she saw to that! Luckily she’s not coming until Saturday.’

  ‘Well, Phil must have some affectionate Belmont memories even so, to want to get married here.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling economy has something to do with it,’ she replied, mouthing the word ‘economy’. ‘Anyway, perhaps you’d like to help with the preparations? Some practical distraction might settle your thoughts. Go and get some breakfast first, you must be famished after your walk. There’s more coffee in the Breakfast Room, hot rolls and all manner of goodies under the dishes.’

  Silas was pleased to do as he was told, and Mrs. Prothero gave him a fond smile as he left.

  However much his vision on that lonely hilltop may have moved or unsettled him, he was still unprepared for the shock that awaited him on entering what Mrs. Prothero called her ‘Breakfast Room’ —a large and comfortable lounge, furnished with easy chairs around a low table, on which a steaming caffitiere scented the air with its aroma. But this relaxed atmosphere was instantly dispelled for Silas, as soon as he advanced three steps and realised that he was not alone. Someone was reclining on a sofa, in a generous bay window away to his right. He froze, astonished: it was not someone, merely someone— it was Bianca, really Bianca, solid and vivid and living. The shock of seeing her there, in that familiar room, while his senses were wide awake, threw his fancied apparition of the night into perspective. She was no longer remote, a melancholy portent, but here, here before him. The warm sunshine was pouring through the window full upon her, and she lay basking contentedly, in a doze. There were no shadows to deceive his eyes: her face had all its wonted bloom, her figure its familiar outlines: unmistakably Bianca.

  Nevertheless, his hopes frightened him, and he dreaded to trust to so much happiness. Perhaps his mind was failing, imagination colouring truth? Already his thoughts were teeming in a frenzy of conjecture— was this the onset of madness? If so, then he was inclined to embrace it— and embrace her. But perhaps he was doomed to be tortured, rather than comforted, by these glimpses of her? Perhaps in a blink, or with the slightest distraction, she would vanish, to leave him solitary once more?

  In dread of this, he stepped slowly and quietly forward, his attention riveted on her sleeping form. His confidence rose as he drew nearer, and when he was close enough to cast a shadow over her face, tears brimmed to his eyes. She was, she must be real: she breathed, the subtle movements of her lips and lashes showed that she dreamt. He never expected to look upon that beautiful face again; he thought it was dead, destroyed. He could hardly bear it; he felt weak with shock. Now, was it possible to wake her from this lazy morning dream, and at once awake himself from his nightmare widower’s life? He must attempt it— with breathless tenderness, he leaned in and gave his lost love an awakening kiss.

  She responded immediately, but not by waking up. Frowning slightly, she turned over and nestled into the cushions, murmuring: ‘Five more minutes.’

  It was not what he expected, but his heart leapt to hear that familiar voice. Eagerly, he knelt down at her side and made to repeat the exercise, placing a second, firmer kiss.

  This time she did not move at all; but her voice was perfectly distinct. ‘Once more, mister, and you lose an eye.’

  ‘Bianca?’ he prompted, surprised.

  She raised one eyelid slightly, and peeped out between the lashes. ‘Bianca?’ she repeated.

  His banked-up emotions overtook him in a rush. He clutched her hand and held it fast against his chest. ‘Bianca! Oh, God, Bianca! I can hardly believe it— I’m dizzy— Bianca, what happened to you? Where have you been? Bianca, what happened?’

  ‘Well,’ she replied languorously, sitting up a little. ‘I took a nap after breakfast, and when I woke up, some madman was calling me Bianca.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t you know me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, contemplating him. ‘I suppose you’re Silas Doliver.’

  ‘Your Silas, Bianca— you do know me!’

  ‘Too well,’ she yawned. ‘I’ve heard nothing but tall tales of what a dreadful husband you were to “poor Bianca”. Poor me, more like, for having to listen to it. If you only made her half as miserable as they say, she deserved double
for being such a martyr. Now let go of my hand.’

  This speech stunned him, and he clutched her fingers still more tightly. ‘You’re angry, then,’ he concluded. ‘Is that it? Alright, be angry if you must, but at least speak to me! For God’s sake, I deserve some explanation— I thought you were dead! I believed it! Why didn’t you tell me you survived? Where did you go? I would have come to you!’

  ‘You’ve a very firm grip,’ she said evenly, oblivious to his questions.

  ‘What? Bianca, you’re not listening to me!’

  ‘Bianca can’t hear you.’

  ‘Bianca, you can. Why won’t you talk to me?’

  ‘A very firm grip. But beware— I have very sharp nails.’ And without a pause she applied them. He snatched away his injured hand with a gasp.

  ‘Bianca!’

  ‘Tsk, Bianca,’ she replied pettishly, ‘you scratch like a kitten— not a drop of blood.’

  Silas stared at her, offended and confused. ‘Why are you acting like this?’ he demanded.

  She smiled at his perplexed expression, and leaned back. ‘It’s your fault for provoking me,’ she explained. ‘But I’ll forgive you if you atone. You may kiss me again, and this time I’ll pay attention.’

  Such self-satisfied goading was thoroughly unlike Bianca’s accustomed manner, and Silas neither liked it nor understood its import. What a moment to adopt such an ugly attitude! Mocking his affection, his warranted curiosity— what