Once he recovered from the shock, Mr. Bainbridge had been quite gallant, fussing about my hand and ignoring Douglas's attempts to excuse my language on grounds that I had been stationed in a field hospital for the better part of two years.
"I'm afraid my wife picked up a number of their colorful expressions from the Yanks and such," Douglas offered, with a nervous smile.
"True," I said, gritting my teeth as I wrapped a water-soaked napkin about my hand.
"Men tend to be very colorful when you're picking shrapnel out of them."
Mr. Bainbridge had tactfully tried to distract the conversation onto neutral historical ground by saying that he had always been interested in the variations of what was considered profane speech through the ages.
There was "Gorblimey," for example, a recent corruption of the oath "God blind me."
"Yes, of course," said Douglas, gratefully accepting the diversion.
"No sugar, thank you, Elsie. What about Gadzooks ? The Gad part is quite clear, of course, but the zook…"
Douglas nodded, letting his unscholarly forelock fall across his forehead. He pushed it back automatically.
"Interesting," he said, "the whole evolution of profanity."
"Yes, and it's still going on," I said, carefully picking up a lump of sugar with the tongs.
"Oh?" said Mr. Bainbridge politely.
"Did you encounter some interesting variations during your war experience?"
"Oh, yes," I said.
"My favorite was one I picked up from a Yank. Man named Williamson, from New York, I believe. He said it every time I changed his dressing."
"What was it?"
" Jeeeez!!, " I said, and dropped the sugar lump neatly into Douglas's tea.
After a peaceful and not unpleasant sit with Mrs. Fiona, I made my way upstairs, to ready myself before Douglas came home. I knew his limit with sherry was two glasses, so I expected him back soon.
The wind was rising, and the very air of the bedroom was prickly with electricity. I drew the brush through my hair, making the curls snap with static and spring into knots and furious tangles. My hair would have to do without its hundred strokes tonight, I decided.
I would settle for brushing my teeth, in this sort of weather. Strands of hair adhered stickily to my cheeks, clinging stubbornly as I tried to smooth them back.
No water in the closet; Douglas had used it, tidying himself before setting out for his meeting with Mr. Bainbridge, and I had not bothered to refill it from the lavatory tap.
I picked up the bottle of Bahamas cologne and poured a generous puddle into the palm of my hand. Rubbing my hands briskly together before the scent could evaporate, I smoothed them rapidly through my hair. I poured another dollop onto my hairbrush and swept the curls back behind my ears with it.
Well. That was rather better, I thought, turning my head from side to side to examine the results in the speckled looking glass. The moisture had dissipated the static electricity in my hair, so that it floated in heavy, shining waves about my face.
And the evaporating alcohol had left behind a very pleasant scent. Douglas would like that, I thought. Bahamas cologne was his favorite.
There was a sudden flash close at hand, with the crash of thunder following close on its heels, and all the lights went out. Cursing under my breath, I groped in the drawers.
Somewhere I had seen candles and matches; power failure was so frequent an occurrence in the Uplands that candles were a necessary furnishing for all inn and hotel rooms.
I had seen them even in the most elegant hotels, where they were scented with honeysuckle, and presented in frosted glass holders with shimmering pendants.
Mrs. Fiona's candles were far more utilitarian—plain white plumber's candles—but there were a lot of them, and three folders of matches as well. I was not inclined to be picky over style at a time like this.
I fitted a candle to the blue ceramic holder on the dressing table by the light of the next flash, then moved about the room, lighting others, until the whole room was filled with a soft, wavering radiance.
Very romantic, I thought, and with some presence of mind, I pressed down the light switch, so that a sudden return of power shouldn't ruin the mood at some inopportune moment.
The candles had burned no more than a half-inch when the door opened and Douglas blew in. Literally, for the draft that followed him up the stairs extinguished three of the candles.
The door closed behind him with a bang that blew out two more, and he peered into the sudden gloom, pushing a hand through his disheveled hair.
I got up and relit the candles, making mild remarks about his abrupt methods of entering rooms. It was only when I had finished and turned to ask him whether he'd like a drink, that I saw he was looking rather white and unsettled.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"Seen a ghost?"
"Well, you know," he said slowly, "I'm not at all sure that I haven't." Absentmindedly, he picked up my hairbrush and raised it to tidy his hair. When a sudden whiff of Bahamas cologne reached his nostrils, he wrinkled his nose and set it down again, settling for the attentions of his pocket comb instead.
I glanced through the window, where the elm trees were lashing to and fro like flails. A loose shutter was banging somewhere on the other side of the house, and it occurred to me that we ought perhaps to close our own, though the carry-on outside was rather exciting to watch.
"Bit blustery for a ghost, I'd think," I said.
"Don't they like quiet, misty evenings in graveyards?" Douglas laughed a bit sheepishly.
"Well, I daresay it's only Bainbridge's stories, plus a bit more of his sherry than I really meant to have. Nothing at all, likely."
Now I was curious.
"What exactly did you see?" I asked, settling myself on the dressing-table seat.
I motioned to the whisky bottle with a half-lifted brow, and Douglas went at once to pour a couple of drinks.
"Well, only a man, really," he began, measuring out a jigger for himself and two for me. "Standing down in the road outside."
"What, outside this house?" I laughed. "Must have been a ghost, then; I can't feature any living person standing about on a night like this."