Page 8 of Haunted By the Highwayman
Chapter 5
Gossmer Hall is about an hour outside the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, on a wild and windswept coast like something from a Gothic novel. We take Rick’s car, watching pale moonlight spilling on the sea as we drive. The house is Georgian style: classical colonnades, sash windows and an immense turning circle for carriages. Tonight the broad gravel path is lined with glowing, grinning pumpkins. Costumed guests mingle and chat on the broad steps leading up to the front door. Marie Antoinette is having a spirited conversation at the most thoroughly bandaged mummy I’ve ever seen. I have no idea if the person inside can even hear her. The high standard of costumes makes me glad that Rick and I went to that fancy shop. Like everyone else, both of us wear black masks that cover the top half of our faces. I have my long swooping black cloak and my hair gelled to a kind of unmoving Dracula shape. Fake fangs hang from my bottom lip. I’m tired of them already. Rick said they look sexy, but they make me need to drool every few minutes… not so sexy.
Under my costume, I’m still wearing the pink collar. Knowing it’s there makes my body burn up with a sensual heat. Rick smiles at me as we walk up the steps. He looks amazing squeezed into his sinfully tight black leather, a little tail drawing the eye to his butt, and his lips dark with deep plum lip stain. And, of course, the demon’s horns, which keep bringing my mind guiltily back to what’s in his pants. He promised that I’d finally get my turn tonight. When is he going to decide that it’s time?
A cool wind ripples my cloak, making me shiver. I forget my horniness momentarily. Of course there’s no such thing as ghosts, but it’s easier to remember that in our well-lit flat than here, with the moon starkly outlined by the skinny black branches of naked trees and a huge, somber-looking house looming over me. How old is this place? Who knows how many people must’ve died here over the years. Suddenly the idea of ghosts doesn’t seem so unreasonable. Unconsciously I step closer to Rick.
At once his hand creeps into mine. “Okay?” he says.
“Yeah.” I lean close. Warmth replaces the chill of fear.
In the foyer, a man checks our tickets. He’s dressed as a liveried servant, complete with white wig and pantyhose. Someone else brings over a silver tray of champagne flutes. We’re in a large entrance hall, lit only by old-fashioned lamps and a roaring fire in the grate. A harpist dressed in a Georgian gown plays soft, spooky music. They’re really staying committed to the period-piece theme. I feel a shiver of pleasant excitement: it’s like stepping back in time. I take a glass of champagne. Rick waves it away and takes a mocktail: he’s on a constant athlete’s diet.
A sign on the wall says that food will be served in half an hour, followed by dancing in the ballroom. In the meantime it isn’t going to be any hardship killing time with Rick on my arm. A picture gallery leads off from the main foyer. I lead Rick overto take a look at the paintings. He took my hand the moment I showed nerves at the front door, and hasn’t dropped it since. I savor the feeling: like we’re a real couple. I’ve already noticed a few same sex-couples openly holding hands or kissing, so it feels like a safe crowd.
One painting catches my eye. It seems to be from the 1700s, judging by everyone’s clothes. A horse-drawn carriage is static on an unpaved road. The well-dressed human occupants huddle close together, cowering before a band of robbers. A man in the middle of the canvas stands straight and proud, casually pointing an antique pistol at the unfortunate travelers. My heart stops as I focus on his face. It’s the man I saw in the bathroom mirror. I left my glasses at home, but my eyesight is still good enough to tell. He’shere, in the painting.
My hand gets cold in Rick’s. The mirror incident wasn’t a prank? Then what was it?
I look closer. The highwayman’s icy blue eyes are clearly visible through his dark mask. Thick tendrils of hair escape from his tricorne hat to be blown back from his face, moved by an unseen breeze. The painter’s talent is so great the whole scene looks real. Especially the highwayman. It’s definitely the same man.
“One of our finest paintings.” The voice at my side makes me jump. It isn’t Rick speaking. It’s a short, middle-aged man with a clipped accent. He owns the whole Hall? He’s wearing a Frankenstein’s monster costume and a mask, his lower face and hands painted green. I was so enthralled, I didn’t even hear him creep up on us.
“It’s beautiful,” Rick says.
“Do you know whoheis?” I ask, finding my voice as I point at the highwayman. I sound a little shaky, and Rick looks at me curiously.
Frankenstein’s monster, or Frankie as I’ve started calling him in my head, smiles at us. “The family black sheep. It’s a sad story. He was an unrepentant criminal, I’m afraid.”
“He needed to steal?” Rick says, looking around the splendor of the painting gallery in disbelief.
“No, but he craved the excitement,” Frankie says. “He was what we used to call a gentleman thief. He caused quite a scandal.”
I stare at the picture, trying to read the expression in the highwayman’s eyes. He seems so free, in this moment at least. There’s no guilt in his eyes, just a wild defiance.
“Why do you keep the painting here if you’re ashamed of him?” Rick says.
“Rick,” I whisper, nudging him in the ribs. Did he have to come out and say it like that?
“Oh, we’re not really ashamed,” Frankie says, giving me a reassuring look. “All families all old as ours have a few skeletons in the closet. Anyway, it’s all ancient history now. And it reads well in the guidebook.” He indicates a rack of books at the entrance to the painting gallery. “Take one if you’re interested. Most of the house is open to the public nowadays. You have no idea what it costs to keep a place like this…”
A woman holding a silver tray of drinks comes over and says something quietly to Frankie.
“Apologies, I’m needed in the kitchen,” he says. “Enjoy the party, won’t you?”
“Thanks,” Rick and I say together, as the man hurries off.
Rick squeezes my hand. “That guy’s really got in your head, hasn’t he?” he says.
“What, Frankie?” I say, surprised.
“Not him.” Rick chuckles at the nickname. “The highwayman.” Rick indicates the picture, where the young man remains frozen in time, a glorious figure in his long coat and high boots andmask. The walking embodiment of wild pride, youth, arrogance and joy.
“He just seems so alive,” I say. I have no idea why I’m finding it so hard to stop looking at him. He’s a criminal, even if he does look damn good while committing his crimes. “It’s hard to believe that he lived centuries ago.”
Rick rubs my back, and I realize I’ve gotten cold.
“Rick?” I say.
