A Magical Christmas Present Read online

  EUGENIA RILEY

  LISA CACH

  VICTORIA ALEXANDER

  A Magical

  Christmas Present

  LOVE SPELL NEW YORK CITY

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Part 1 - The Ghost of Christmas Past by Eugenia Riley

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part 2 - A Midnight Clear by Lisa Cach

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part 3 - Promises to Keep by Victoria Alexander

  Dedication

  December 24, 1996

  Epilogue

  Praise

  Copyright

  EUGENIA RILEY

  The Ghost of Christmas Past

  This story is dedicated, with love, to our newest Riley,

  our own Christmas angel, my precious niece—

  Sarah Carter Riley

  born December 22, 1992

  —and with special congratulations to Mom and Dad, Philip

  and Cay.

  CHAPTER ONE

  You are invited to meet

  The ghost of Christmas past….

  “Through this portal, take your leave,

  You’ll come back on Christmas Eve….”

  Sitting in a quaint café across from Piccadilly Circus, Jason Burke sipped his cappuccino and stared at the two cryptic messages inscribed on the strange invitation that was included among a stack of invitations given to him by his employer. Of the half-dozen or so announcements for the Christmas Candlelight Tours he was covering here in London, this one was by far the oddest. The peculiar notice was printed in old-fashioned gold script, on ancient-looking yellow parchment banded by red. Beneath the two messages was written, “The Simmons Hotel,” followed by an address Jason had never heard of.

  Not that he was that familiar with addresses here in London. An American, Jason was a reporter in England on assignment for a New York newspaper. Ever since Finias Fogg, an Englishman, had established the Manhattan Chronicle over 150 years ago, the paper had published an annual spread on Christmas traditions in England. As an added touch of whimsy, the series had always been run under Fogg’s byline. This year, Jason had been awarded the dubious honor of becoming the sainted Mr. Fogg, and thus he was reluctantly writing the Yule spread.

  Reluctantly. Now that was an understatement. Only a few months ago, Jason would have scoffed at taking on one of those softer, fluffier assignments for the women’s pages or the Sunday supplements. Until recently, he had been a hard-edged news reporter who had covered trouble spots all over the globe.

  But that was before he had lost his edge.

  He sighed, wondering when he had lost his incisiveness, his vision. Had it been in Africa, when he had held in his arms that frail, pitiful child too weak to take the food he had offered? Or perhaps in the Middle East, when he had watched one of his best friends, a world-class photographer, lose his life when he had accidentally stepped on a land mine? Or maybe it had been the day a few months ago when he had returned to his Manhattan apartment, only to discover a note from Shelley breaking their engagement, telling him that he was too self-absorbed to make a good husband, and that she had gone off to “find herself” in L.A.

  Whenever it had happened, at 29, Jason had become burned out. He had arrived at a point where he had ceased to care what he wrote—until his editor had yanked him off the fast track and had given him less-challenging assignments as a sort of enforced sabbatical. When Jason had revolted, refusing to cover whooping crane lectures or museum openings, his editor had given him an ultimatum: Prove yourself, or leave.

  He hadn’t left. He wasn’t a quitter. He would prove himself and get his edge back, if only to escape the boredom of these frothy assignments.

  Covering the West End Candlelight Tours here in London had to be the most frivolous so far, he mused. Over the next three nights, decked out in black tie and a forced smile, Jason would trudge through the formal, high-society affairs, going from one upscale London home or bed-and-breakfast establishment to another. The theme of the tours was “A Christmas Carol,” and Jason presumed that there would be feasts, carolers, stuffed boars’ heads and plum pudding ad nauseam. In fact, he understood that the homeowners or innkeepers were to dress in period costumes and to pose as citizens of Dickens’s London.

  He glanced again at the invitation from the Simmons Hotel and had to smile ironically. Now, it appeared that one of the tours was even to be led by an actual “ghost.”

  Hearing laughter at the table next to him, Jason turned to watch a large family group jovially toast a couple who were obviously celebrating an anniversary. He felt a sense of melancholy drift back over him. In truth, he rather disliked himself for greeting his current assignment here in England with such cynicism. After all, he had gotten to travel on expense account to London, and ordinarily he loved England. No doubt, too, the readers of the Manhattan Chronicle deserved far better than his world-weary approach to Yuletide.

  Only, his life felt so empty at the moment. And thus he feared he would perform his current duties with all the enthusiasm of a true Ebenezer Scrooge.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Jason glanced up at the waiter, who stood in his apron and gartered shirt, with pad in hand.

  “Do you know where this address is?” Jason asked, handing the man the invitation.

  The waiter took it, turned it over, and frowned. “A very odd invitation, sir. Why, the paper looks almost as old as the address itself. Why the strange wording, do you suppose?”

  “I’m covering the West End Candlelight Tours for the Manhattan Chronicle,” Jason explained. “And it seems that the tour of the Simmons Hotel is to be led by a ghost.”

  The waiter broke into a grin. “Oh, yes, sir. You’re referring to the annual wingding when all of London’s high society dress up like they’re straight out of Queen Victoria’s time?”

  “That’s it.”

  The waiter handed the invitation back to Jason. “The address is off Belgrave Square, sir. I’m not really sure just where, but perhaps if you navigate over in that direction, you’ll find it in good time.”

  “A comforting prospect,” Jason quipped. “Now, if I can just remember to keep my rental car on the right side of the road—or rather, the left.”

  The waiter laughed and handed Jason the check. He paid the bill and left the cozy restaurant. Outside, the cold December air hit him, and he lifted the collar of his coat against the chill. Regent Street, with its three-and four-story classical facades, was jammed with cars and ablaze with lights. Mammoth glittering chandeliers hung suspended above the streets, and sprays of electric lights cascaded from one doorway to another. Late shoppers, diners, and theatergoers thronged the sidewalks, and the mood was one of holiday ebullience. Jason caught his reflection in the window of a china shop and saw a tall, black-haired man with cleanly cut features and shuttered dark eyes. He hurried on, feeling somehow uncomfortable to be looking at himself too closely. He arrived at his small rental car, unlocked it and ducked inside, groaning as he folded his tall form into the cramped driver’s seat. He debated whether he should consult the map in the glove box, then decided that the waiter’s advice would probably work just a
s well. He may as well begin his evening with a ghost or two, he mused ruefully as he started the car and ground the gearshift into first.

  Jason followed the flow of traffic, eventually wending his way down through Trafalgar Square with its spectacular soaring Christmas tree next to the fountain and Nelson’s Column. He maneuvered his way past the stately offices and clubs on Pall Mall, and finally out onto Knightsbridge near the park. He turned south into Belgravia and circled past the stuccoed embassies on Belgrave Square. He then began methodically following the side streets that fanned outward from each corner of the square. More than once, he got lost amid the endless rows of fashionable shops and elegant houses. At one point, he found himself out of Belgravia entirely, and inching his way through heavy traffic past the glittering spectacle of Harrod’s on Brompton Road. At last, he wended his way back into the residential area, where the thickening fog and dimly lit streets further impeded his progress. He was to the point of giving up when, to his exasperation, he became even more hopelessly ensnared in the maze of streets, and couldn’t even find his way back to the square!

  At last, in disgust, Jason pulled up before a three-story Greek revival town house, hoping to ask for directions. He got out of his car and approached the steps to the pillared portico and suddenly, he was there! To his amazement, he looked up at the lettering over the door and read #10 Belgrave Lane—the very number on his invitation. And, on the frosted glass panel of the door was emblazoned, “The Simmons Hotel.”

  Looking up and down the stately three-story white brick structure, Jason frowned. He was at the right address, all right, but it looked as if no one was at home. The house had an eerie, near-deserted quality about it. Only the wannest light could be discerned glowing behind the yellowed window shades. And there were no trappings of Christmas to be seen at all—no wreath on the door, only a small sconce spilling out a dim puddle of light. Perhaps the owners had deliberately created this chilling ambiance for their “ghost tour”?

  Hugging himself to ward off the cold, Jason sprinted up the steps and knocked on the door. He was half-expecting no response at all. But to his surprise, a moment later the door creaked open and a young woman stood before him, with a lit candle in her hand.

  Unaccountably, a chill shook Jason, and for a moment he could only stare at her. Never had the sight of any woman so compelled or mesmerized him! She stood in a pool of light so dim that Jason could barely make out her features. A spooky feeling racked him as he realized that this lovely creature very much resembled a ghost.

  She was quite beautiful, but also quite pale. There was something haunting, almost ethereal, about her countenance. She had a delicate face, eyes as light as honey, and lips as pale as faded rose petals. Her golden-brown hair was piled on top of her head. She wore an old-fashioned, brown velvet gown, with a skirt that swept wide and dragged the floor.

  Jason smiled at her. “Hello,” he murmured, in a voice that trembled oddly. “You must be the ghost of Christmas past—and I must say, a lovelier ghost I’ve never seen.”

  “Good evening, sir,” the woman replied in a sweet, lyrical voice. She lowered her gaze self-consciously. “I am Annie Simmons, daughter of the hotel’s owner, and your guide for this evening.” She stepped back. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  The disquieting feeling continued to grip Jason as he moved through the portal. Meanwhile, his ghostly tour guide moved farther away from him. Only when he was several feet beyond her did she turn to shut the door. He regarded her bemusedly.

  “Follow me, sir,” she murmured.

  Jason glanced about in perplexity as they filed down the barren hallway with its high ceilings and carved frieze. The walls were darkly wainscoted, the faded wallpaper above hinting of a grander time.

  “I take it I am the first to arrive on the tour tonight?” He laughed almost nervously. “If the others have the difficult time I did in finding you, Miss Annie Simmons, I’ll wager they are all lost, just like I was.”

  She turned to stare at him. “You are not lost, sir.”

  Inexplicably, her statement—and the odd light in her eyes—unnerved Jason. She seemed to be talking about so much more than geography, and it suddenly struck him that he had felt lost, so lost, for such a long time.

  He followed her into a large, barren room that obviously had once been a parlor. A crystal chandelier, unlit but still glorious, hung from a carved plaster medallion at the center of the room. The walls were papered in shades of faded, flocked rose damask.

  At the fireplace, she turned. In a low, almost haunting voice, she said, “My father bought this hotel in 1832. I was born here the following year. My mother died that day, and my father raised me.”

  Jason regarded the woman with skepticism and uncertainty. While logic argued that she must be a member of a local historical society who was now merely reciting rehearsed lines, something about her visage almost had him believing this “ghost” was for real.

  Trying to stave off the disquieting feelings she stirred in him, Jason took out his notebook and tried a stab at humor. “So, you really are up on your history, aren’t you, miss?” He grinned. “Did it take you long to practice your role for tonight’s tour?”

  Again her pale, lovely gaze met his. “I am not playing a role, sir.”

  Jason forced a laugh that sounded oddly hollow. His guide turned to brush a bit of dust from the mantel of the fireplace.

  “This room used to be our drawing room,” she went on poignantly. “By the 1850s, our hotel was quite prosperous, the rooms always full. We would gather here with our guests each Christmas and sing carols and drink wassail.”

  “And did all the young men try their best to catch you beneath the mistletoe?” Jason teased.

  For the first time, she smiled at him. “We called it the kissing bunch, sir.”

  “Ah, the kissing bunch,” he replied approvingly, jotting down the term. “So you have done your homework. I’m impressed.”

  She did not comment, and the dimness of her visage, as well as the enigma of her shuttered expression, compelled him to study her at closer range. He edged toward her, but even as he moved, she was already sweeping away from him—as if she had read his thoughts! Feeling frustrated, he followed her out of the room.

  In the hallway, she pointed toward another large, barren room where a bay window jutted out at the front. “This is where we all gathered for our meals. On Christmas Day our cook, Mrs. Chandler, would bring in the plum pudding aflame with brandy.”

  “Ah, the glories of Christmas Day,” Jason murmured, unable to contain a hint of cynicism. “I do hope dear Mrs. Chandler didn’t ignite the curtains when she set ablaze her culinary delights.”

  She stared at him sadly. “You don’t much like Christmas, do you, sir?”

  Again, the woman’s uncanny insight knocked Jason off-balance. Before he could ponder a reply, the lovely “ghost” turned and started up the stairway. He followed her, wondering at the strange, spooky aura that radiated about her. Reason again argued that she was merely an actress playing a role—and yet his emotions were in turmoil, and he felt strangely drawn to her. Whatever he had expected on the Candlelight Tours tonight, it was definitely not this barren house and this sad, solitary “ghost.”

  Upstairs, his guide led him down a hallway, pausing at each doorway to tell him the history of each room: “This is where my Uncle Jed stayed, until he married a widow lady in 1848….” “This is the room where Miss Media used to sit by the window and do her knitting.…” “In here, over against that wall, was the bed where I was born, and my mother died….” “In this room, we had newlyweds—until the fever took them both….”

  With each step they took down the hallway, with each detail his tour guide uttered, Jason’s feeling of unreality heightened. Annie Simmons—or whoever she was—made each statement with such conviction that it was becoming more and more difficult not to believe her!

  Again, he wondered why he was the only person ta
king this bizarre “ghost tour.” And why were there no furnishings, no Christmas decorations, no refreshments in sight? Somewhere along the way, Jason had even put away his notebook, and was now simply watching Annie, listening intently, fascinated, half-hypnotized.

  She was now nodding toward the stairway that led to the third story. “Up there is where our servants used to sleep.” Wistfully, she added, “But it’s only storage now, with everyone gone.”

  Again, Jason tried to move closer to her, and again she glided away, elusive as a mist. He longed to touch her, but some instinct warned him not to. She led him back toward the stairs.

  “If everyone is gone,” he teased gently, “then who are you?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I thought you knew, sir,” she replied with a strange, almost chilling smile. “I am the ghost who haunts this hotel.”

  And, leaving him to reel in the wake of her eerie statement, she swept on.

  Jason followed her downstairs. When she reached the first floor, she turned to stare at him, just a few steps above her. A haunting light played over her features as she murmured in a monotone, “I died on these steps on Christmas Eve in 1852, when I learned that my true love had deserted me.”

  Her words, her expression, sent a shudder through Jason. Intrigued and electrified, he hurried down to join her. It was uncanny as hell, he thought, but when she had just spoken, she actually had him believing she was a ghost!

  “But why did you die?” he implored. “You must tell me more.”

  But again, she was already evading him, heading off toward the front door. “I’m sorry, sir. Your tour has ended now.”

  Jason felt strangely bereft. “Please,” he murmured, “I’d really like to see you again. And I’d like to learn more about this hotel.”

  She smiled that same, eerie smile again. “Oh, but you will, sir.”

  She stood back so he could pass through the portal.