Ghosts of Southampton

PROLOGUE

New York City

John Ashton poured three fingers of whiskey into two glasses and sat the decanter down on the side table. Sunlight streamed through a sliver of lace curtains that broke the deep red velvet drapes symmetrically, the only source of natural light that found its way into his study, illuminating a jagged river across the cherry floor and the side of a mahogany bookshelf as it found the face of his longtime friend, Henry Westmoreland, who reposed in a heavily cushioned chair that matched the curtains almost exactly.

“Thank you,” Henry nodded as he took the glass, giving it a sip before nestling it between his hands on top of a crossed knee.

John nodded and then found a seat across from his former Oxford roommate. “How was your trip?” he asked, taking a drink and then setting his glass on an end table. “Nothing exciting I hope?”

“Heavens, no,” Henry laughed. “I can’t imagine anything exciting happening on a trip across the Atlantic. Fairly uneventful.”

While John could think of several potentially exciting occurrences, he chose not to list them since his friend would be heading back soon. No need to plant thoughts of mechanical failures or floundering vessels. “Your meetings went well?”

“Oh, yes,” Henry nodded, smoothing out his trousers over his knee. “The factory has certainly taken off these past two years. It seems I’ve finally found a way to get my textiles to the markets successfully.”

John nodded. “That’s wonderful news. You always knew how to make a quality product. Perhaps this will be just what you need to make Westmoreland Textiles a household name on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“Indeed,” Henry agreed. At thirty-five, his sandy blond hair should not have been thinning. Yet, when he ran his hand through, John could see much of his scalp. He hadn’t seen Henry in almost a year, but he certainly looked different. Thin—gaunt almost. His skin was pale and though he wore a suit, it was apparent he had several lesions near the cuff of his jacket on each arm. “How are things for you?”

It took John a moment to realize he’d been asked a question; he was so distracted by his guest’s appearance. “Oh, we are doing well,” he finally managed. “Pamela and I are very happy with business. Steel is the future of this country.”

Henry coughed rather violently, drawing out a handkerchief as he did so. After a moment, he took a deep breath, and returning the handkerchief to his pocket, he said, “Good. That’s good to hear. I really thought you were getting in at the right time, what with the building boom and the expansion of the transportation system.”

John’s forehead was still puckered, but he overlooked the spell for a moment. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his own dark brown hair, absently weighing the thickness. “Yes, timing is everything, as you know. If you hadn’t made that loan to me a few years ago, I’m not sure….”

“Oh, no need to bring that up,” Henry interrupted. “That’s ancient history. I was happy to help a friend.” He was gazing at John poignantly, and the New Yorker froze in his friend’s stare, noticing the glassy look in his eyes. “You’ve always been a good friend, John.”

“Henry,” John began, leaning forward in his seat with his elbows pressed into his knees, “is something the matter? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

Henry took a sip of his whiskey before inhaling deeply, holding his breath for a second and then releasing it slowly. Finally, he said, “I’m dying.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He gaped at Henry in shock for a long moment before he stammered, “I’m so… sorry. What is it? What have the doctors said?”

Nervous laughter escaped Henry as he shrugged. “It’s all right. We are all dying. Like most things, I’m just more successful at it than others.” Clearly, John was not amused, so Henry cleared his throat again and continued. “I’ve visited quite a few doctors over the last year or so. No one is quite sure what it is, honestly. They haven’t found a growth or anything of the like. I have phases when I’m nearly myself, and then the symptoms come back. They are full of theories, but theories don’t keep air in the lungs.”

John leaned back in his seat, unsure what to say. He finished his drink, considered pouring another, and then decided to wait. “I am at a loss for words,” he admitted. “I’m so sorry. Do you think there’s any hope? Perhaps….”

“No, I don’t think so,” Henry interrupted again. He changed positions so that his ankle now rested on his knee and began to absently smooth his trouser cuff. “I have my own theory, though it’s nothing I can prove, and honestly nothing I even care to think about.”

“What is it?” John asked, leaning forward again.

Henry shook his head, a serene expression crossing his face. He was a handsome man; the women had always thought so. Clean shaven except for a small moustache. John remembered how he’d had his choice of young debutantes to lead around the ballroom at every occasion. Not that John wasn’t considered a catch himself. It was just difficult to imagine that this man before him was the same spritely, happy-go-lucky chap he’d spent his formative years with not that long ago. After a lengthy pause, Henry managed to quietly reply, “I’d rather not say.”

It was a struggle not to press for information, so John rose and poured himself another drink, offering to top Henry’s off as well, but he waved him away. John took a sip and returned to his seat. “What does Mildred think?”

His expression didn’t change, nor did his distracted behavior. “She doesn’t seem to mind,” he finally shrugged out.

John shook his head slowly from side to side. He’d never known what it was Henry saw in the woman. Mildred Truesdale had been a beautiful strawberry blonde vixen, from his recollection. She was quick witted, never shy, and often condescending. But there had been something about her that had captivated his roommate from their third year on, and when he announced his engagement to Miss Truesdale, John hadn’t bothered to voice his disapproval. He knew that the marriage was not problem free, not that any of them are, but he couldn’t imagine living with someone who didn’t support him, someone who seemed to question his every decision, even in business, the way that Mildred did. He knew he was a lucky man to have found Pamela, and he had always wished that his friend could know what it was like to have a true partner in life. Now, to hear that his friend was losing his life and Mildred “didn’t seem to mind” was about enough to send him through the roof.

“What can I do?” John asked, biting back the coarse words of consternation that were fighting to break free.

A small smile played at Henry’s upper lip for a moment before it faded back to melancholy. “I think my business should be just fine, at least for a few years. I’m not worried about that. It’s… Meggy.”