Read Online That Silent Night by TASHA ALEXANDER - Free Book Online

leave you to your reunion.”
    Colin and I watched as they walked back to their house, Adelaide between the newly married couple. “Does he have any idea of what she has been through?” I asked.
    â€œI believe so,” Colin said, “but he is too discreet to ever mention it. We discussed the situation at length, as you must have gathered from the time of my absence. He is a good man who would do anything for his wife. And Dr. Holton, when consulted on the matter, told him that Mrs. Leighton is bound to begin to recover almost immediately now that the source of her problems has been identified.”
    â€œShe will still struggle with guilt, no doubt,” I said.
    â€œYes, and her sister is likely to have a less than straightforward path to an ordinary life after what she has suffered but, for now, they will have the happiest of Christmases thanks to your persistence.” He pulled me close. “As shall we. We have lingered too long in London. I think we must return to Anglemore. I miss the boys.”
    â€œWhen is the next train?” I asked.
    â€œWe shall go first thing in the morning,” he said. “I would not object to one more evening of having you all to myself.”
    Although I would never be so crass as to discuss the particulars, I will say the evening was a spectacular success. The mutually expressed affection of two happily married individuals is, without question, one of the greatest pleasures in life. Despite my satisfaction, however, I woke up sometime deep in the night, consumed by a chill sense of dread. I lay still, willing myself to fall back asleep, but Morpheus would not come. A sound—a low sort of moan—only barely audible, seized my attention, and I rose from bed and slipped into the room across the corridor.
    I had made no conscious decision to go there. It was as if some other force had control of my body and led me to the window, where, when I pulled back the curtain, I saw her, still there. Her face was pale and drawn, and her dress was a near match to the one Adelaide had been wearing when I found her. This time, the woman did not hold a locket in her hands, but then, she had never had a locket, had she? Instead, she pressed her palms together, in front of her chest. I could only just make out the slightest hint of a contented smile on her lips as she bowed her head, and then, in a flash, she was gone, and with her the chill that had surrounded me, leaving in its place a rush of warmth.
    I knew without question what I had seen. Adelaide and Penelope’s mother could now, at last, rest in peace.
    I also knew without question that this information would be best kept from my husband. There is no point in trying to convert those who don’t believe.

Author’s Note
    It is common knowledge that many of the Christmas traditions we observe today come from the Victorians. Dickens solidified and immortalized the image of a perfect family Christmas—much of which the English had adopted from the Germans via Prince Albert—and set them against the backdrop of his famous ghost story. Christmas and ghosts have a long association, and one that may have its roots in Britain rather than the Continent. Families and friends would gather around the fire on Christmas Eve after tiring of charades and other games and start the serious business of the evening: telling creepy stories as gaslights cast long shadows in a dark room.
    The best ghost stories, of course, are the ones told in person by a narrator who knew at least one of the central characters in the tale, lending it a sense of veracity. Even better if one could give a first-hand account of a ghostly apparition. But one must not discount the multitude of stories penned by writers eager to provide readers with suitably eerie fare for the holiday. Along with Dickens, M. R. James, provost of King’s College, Cambridge, became famous for his stories, which he shared with students and eventually