The Langton Legacy

Irina frowned in deep concentration as she worked the cotton bud into the fine detailing of the wooden bedpost. It was made of mahogany and required regular polishing with specialist wood polish to keep the wood looking its best. One of the tourists who'd been in here earlier had knocked against it and the metal buckle of her bag had left a scratch in the surface, which she had luckily managed to buff away. Irina hated to see such a beautiful antique despoiled in any way, and took immense pride in keeping this grand old house spotless.

As so often happened in this room, she felt a slight coldness and a prickle on the back of her neck. There were plenty of stories about Langton Manor being haunted -- but she did not believe in ghosts and therefore didn't put it down to anything other than the slight draught from the latticed windows. She shivered a little, but did not stop her work.

The being that was watching her, and had gently toyed with the soft wisps of hair that always escaped from her otherwise immaculately tidy hair, knew better. He knew that ghosts existed because he was one -- and he was determined to get the beautiful twenty-eight-year-old housekeeper to acknowledge his presence. For although he no longer had a body, he still had all the desires and emotions one normally associated with a living man. Uninhibited as he was by the usual barriers that prevented people from seeing each other's true feelings, he could sense her loneliness as tangibly as if it was a person in its own right. He could also see her generosity, her extraordinary courage, and her enormous capacity for love -- for these were spiritual traits and as a spirit himself he could see these as no living person ever could.

"I am here, Irina," he said softly into her pretty little ear. "I think you know it, but will not allow yourself to feel it."

That draught really was getting irritating, thought Irina, rubbing her ear. And it seemed to be coming from all over the place lately. She would have to have a word with the janitor about the heating. Perhaps it was on the blink again.

The ghost reached out what he still thought of as his hand, and touched her face, moving his fingertips over her lusciously tempting pink lips, prompting her to bite her bottom lip with perfect white teeth. She looked a little nervous. So she was aware of him! Triumphantly, he lowered his head and kissed her. Even though he no longer had skin, he could still sense her warmth, coursing around him like the blood that had once flowed through his body. He wrapped his incorporeal arms around her waist and tried to pull her closer to him, but his hands passed through her just as he had thought to have got the hang of it -- and she gave a cry of alarm, backing away and crashing into the dressing-table.

"I am sorry!" he cried, in a voice she had no way of hearing. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

But she had run out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. Frustrated, he tried to pick up something from the floor and hurl it across the room -- but again his hand passed straight through the object. He had practised and practised, managing at various times to ruffle the curtains and even to push the mirror back a little on its stand -- and now, because he had been impetuous and stupid, he had lost the ability again. Damn his recklessness!

He realised them what the object was. It was the cotton bud she had been using to polish the bedpost. She always kept his room looking so immaculate. As a man he had been too preoccupied with more hedonistic concerns to pay much heed to the state of his house, but now he felt a deep appreciation for the care she took over her work. Perhaps he could make it up to her. With the grim patience it had taken death to instil in him, he focused his efforts on the little stick.

***

"This is Lord Langton's bedroom," said Irina to the small group of tourists, unlocking the door with one of the many keys she kept on her person. She felt a moment's hesitation as she stepped through the doorway, but chided herself for being so silly. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for that odd sensation she had experienced last week. She'd had a headache when she woke up that morning, so perhaps she was sickening for the flu or something.

She took a moment to thank God that she had been born in the twentieth century, where she would never suffer an illness so terrible and a death so painful as the one she spoke of, three times a day during the spring and summer months, to various groups of strangers.

"And that bed," she said, "is where Lord James Langton died in 1782, at the tender age of thirty-three. He caught diphtheria -- and, of course, back then there were no vaccines or antibiotics to save him."

She always said this, thought Lord Langton's ghost. What were these things she spoke of? It sounded as though diphtheria was no longer a killer disease. He had so much he wanted to ask Irina about the world she lived in. One of the tourists had left a newspaper in here once, he knew not how long ago now; the date on it had been May 6th 2010. 228 years after his death, give or take a few months. And yet time did not seem to pass in the same way as it once had. He could have found out he'd been here only a year and it would have seemed no more or less extraordinary.

"He was engaged to be married at the time," she said. "And because he never produced an heir, the estate passed to his younger brother Thomas. There were those who said that it was better this way as, in many ways, Thomas was the responsible one of the pair. James Langton liked to enjoy life -- lots of women and parties -- and was very bad at managing money. Although it is said that he would give his last farthing to anyone, and in fact he always gave extravagant gifts to the servants at Christmas. On one occasion he was known to give a scullery-maid a year's salary as a gift."

A slight smile flickered over her face as she said this. She had read and heard a lot of stories of the wild young baron and his many escapades, and she did not doubt that the maid had earned the money in some disreputable way! She had built up quite a picture in her mind of him as a person and although she had no way of basing her opinion on true knowledge of him, she had grown quite fond of him. He struck her as being like an overgrown schoolboy, always getting into scrapes and then invariably charming his way out of them. And, of course, his portrait in the gallery downstairs was a very handsome one. She often spent time studying it whilst cleaning, taking in the tousled dark-brown hair, the mischievous twinkle in the brown eyes, the sturdy physique and the flamboyant dress sense -- and knew that if she had been that scullery-maid, she would have succumbed to his charms as well.

This thought gave her a restless feeling between her thighs. How long had it been, now, since she'd had a boyfriend -- even a casual one? Over a year, for certain. It wasn't that she couldn't attract men; she had the tall, slender figure and porcelain-doll beauty so characteristic of Russian women and, knowing British men as she did after eight years of living here, she knew she could go out and get laid this very night if she wanted to. But she wanted something more than just a quick fumble based on physical attraction. Not a relationship, exactly -- she'd been turned off that idea by her ex. Something between a relationship and a one-night stand; something with a bit of depth, but not too much commitment. Perhaps a 'fuck-buddy', as her friend Emma called it. And yet British men all seemed to want either eternal devotion or a brief encounter. It was too annoying!

She finished talking about the various items of furniture and their history, and then instructed the tourists to step out into the hall where she would lead them towards the servants' quarters. As she went to follow them, she felt something brush her hand. Startled, she spun around. There was no-one there -- but suddenly she was holding a cotton bud. The one she had been using to polish the mahogany detailing a week earlier.

She stared at it for a moment, too shocked to move or speak. She remembered dropping that on the floor -- but it hadn't been there when she went back to pick it up and she had assumed that one of the cleaning staff must have found it. And yet here it now was, in her hand. Suddenly it seemed ridiculous to try and pretend that there was nothing here. In fact, now that she paid attention she could feel it in the room. It wasn't menacing -- it was just there, and wanted to be noticed.

"Thank you," she said out loud.

"You're welcome," said Lord Langton.

Irina heard the words in her mind, spoken in a soft male voice, with the kind of impeccable English accent she had only ever heard from Colin Firth playing Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. She wondered if she was imagining things -- just filling in the response in her head. But then she felt that cool prickling around the base of her neck -- there one moment, gone the next -- and knew that she couldn't be. She trembled slightly as it happened again. Now that she'd stopped either dismissing it as a draught or being scared of it, she found that the sensation was actually very pleasant.

"If there is someone here," she said, "please do that again."

"As you wish," said the ghost, feeling suddenly alive as he hadn't in centuries. She knew of him -- and she welcomed his advances. He had to work on becoming visible to her. He had managed it once, when a little boy in a tourist group had started kicking the leg of the dressing table that his Irina had spent so long polishing. He had felt a surge of anger -- and then the boy had screamed and run out of the room, gibbering that he'd seen 'a see-through man'. No-one else seemed to have seen anything, but it had been a start.

He touched her again, this time letting his hand travel up and over her face, back down her other cheek and across her shoulder, which was partially bare in a light-blue low-cut blouse. He longed to run his fingers over the curve of her pert breasts, but stayed the urge. Now that he had gained her trust, he would rather die all over again than lose it.

"Oh," she breathed, her skin tingling delightfully at the gentle coolness of his caress. Her own hand came up and rested above her breast; if he had tangible form, their hands would have touched. He felt his aura flare in response. How he wanted her, this sweet exotic beauty with her pale skin and dark hair and beautifully accented voice. She reminded him more than a little of Emily, the woman he had loved and would never see again. Perhaps, in time, Irina would allow him to show his adoration in the same way as Emily had -- if, indeed, a ghost man could make love to a living woman.

"Beautiful Irina," he said. "If you would know me better, come here again this evening when the house is empty."

"I will," she said. This is crazy, her rational self protested. If this thing is real, you have no way of knowing it doesn't mean you harm. But after so long without love, the promise contained in his touch would not allow her to listen to reason. She had to risk it.

***

For the rest of the day she could hardly concentrate on her duties. It seemed like an age before it was five-thirty and she could send the rest of the staff home and lock up the house. She procrastinated for a long time, flitting about from here to there like a butterfly, straightening ornaments that didn't need straightening and wondering if she had in fact gone mad. But her body was still buzzing from the experience of earlier and at just gone seven o'clock, she made her way up the stairs towards the bedroom, her heart hammering in anticipation.

Lord Langton looked up as she came in, hardly daring to believe his luck that she had actually kept her promise. She stood expectantly, waiting for him to make himself known -- and suddenly he found himself feeling unaccountably shy. It had been all very well when he was the one in control, and she merely the passive recipient of his attentions. But now she wanted something from him, and he had no way of knowing exactly what. He hesitated, all the while knowing that if he did so for too long she would walk away and he might have lost his chance forever.

But he needn't have worried. To his delighted disbelief, she was beginning to unbutton her blouse. He crossed the room and placed his hands on top of hers. She felt the contact and quivered with pleasure. He allowed his hands to sink into hers a little as they slid her jeans down over her hips and legs and then removed her shoes and socks, his fingers mimicking the flexing and bending of hers, undressing her vicariously. He had been practising hard since mastering the cotton bud and he was intensely thankful now that he had done so.

Female underwear had certainly changed in two hundred years, he reflected, gazing appreciatively at the cream-coloured lacy bra and knickers she wore. In his day, women had worn corsets and huge bloomers. This style was much more appealing to the eye and he considered asking her to keep it on -- but he was glad he didn't. If he had still had breath, it would have been taken away by the sight of her naked. She was slim but not skinny; her breasts were full and rounded and she had just enough flesh everywhere else to give her decent curvature. Her dusky-pink nipples were slightly erect, either from cold or excitement, and to his curiosity she had no hair between her legs. At first this repulsed him slightly; did he really want a woman who looked like a little girl down there? But then he realised that this meant he would be able to see everything that much more clearly, and that the skin there was likely to be unimaginably soft. He felt himself flare again as arousal pulsed through him, and heard her gasp as she felt it too.

"I think I know who you are," she said. "You're Lord Langton."

"Yes," he said, "but I would like you to call me James."

"James," she said, as if trying out the word for the first time. His name sounded wonderful to him, spoken in her Russian accent. She had seen him for maybe half a second just then, and recognised him instantly. His ghost looked rather gaunter than the vibrant young man in the portrait, but he was still very handsome -- and his expression had told her how desirable he found her. She could hear him, but the words were travelling straight into her mind rather than through her ears. She wondered if she even needed to speak aloud. Could ghosts read minds?

Can you hear me? she thought.

"Yes," he said. "But I like the sound of your voice -- and I want to hear the sounds you make when you are experiencing pleasure. Do you know how beautiful you are?"

"No," she said, her voice becoming playful in tone as the last vestige of fear vanished. "Show me."

Not 'tell me', he noted -- 'show me'. That was as much invitation as he needed. He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then sent his mouth on a magical journey of discovery all over her, his hands aiding his search. Irina began to moan with pleasure -- quietly at first but then, as his ethereal tongue wormed its way between her pussy lips and started lapping at her clit, more loudly. The coolness of his touch was thrown into stark contrast by the fire it seemed to light in her body. She felt her orgasm build far quicker than it ever had with any mortal man -- and as it broke, sending waves of excruciating pleasure all over her, she nearly fell to the ground. But a pair of strong, invisible arms held her and prevented her from doing so.

"Oh, James!" she cried. "That was wonderful."

Lord Langton -- James -- was fully visible to her now. The intensity of her pleasure, felt as a kind of empathy by him, had strengthened his aura sufficiently to make him visible. For the first time she looked straight at him. If he had thought her blue eyes stunning before, they were even more so when locked onto his.

"Lie on the bed with me," he pleaded.

She did so, not taking her eyes from him, afraid that if she did he would somehow stop existing. "How is it possible that I can see you -- feel you?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Perhaps it is because your spirit is connecting with mine. But it does not matter. All that matters is us, and what we can do for one another."

Visible as he now was, Irina was in a position to be able to return some of the loving attention he had shown her. She soon learned to tell where he ended and thin air began not only by sight but by the change in the feel of the air, and soon all of her kisses and caresses were hitting the mark. James sighed happily as he experienced once again some of the pleasure of being alive. It was with some surprise that he discovered he too was naked -- and fully erect. He had somehow expected still to be wearing the clothes he had been wearing when he died. He obviously still had a lot to learn, he thought, about being a ghost and what he was truly capable of.

She had taken his cock into her mouth now. Apart from the temperature difference it felt just like the 'real thing', she thought, for want of a better term. But, although he was enjoying this, he wanted to make love to her fully. To her surprise he was suddenly pulling her up and on top of him so that she sat astride him. Knowing immediately what he needed and feeling the same need within herself, she tried to get him inside her -- but failed. She cried out in frustration.

"Concentrate on what you want to do and it will happen," he told her.

So she did -- and this time she was successful. "Oh, yes!" she whispered as he filled her aching pussy almost to bursting point. She was not to know that he could expand his aura in any direction he wished and was actually far more 'inside' her than she could ever have dreamed, practically filling her womb with his presence. In spite of this she rode him hard, her need driving her on even though at times it hurt; in fact the pain just excited her more.

"Irina," he groaned. He had not expected to orgasm but here he was doing so. Pleasure ripped through him and for a brief moment the room was actually illuminated by him. White light bathed everything until it was as if the moon itself had got in through the window. Irina saw it too, and thought that the room had never looked more magical. Because there was magic in here -- there had to be, for her to have found this amazing lover just when she needed it most.

It was now that he fully appreciated the advantage of not having a physical body. The problem he had had when alive -- having to stop when he'd come because of losing his erection -- simply wasn't an issue now. And so it was that he was able to pleasure her over and over -- himself a fair few times too -- until at last she collapsed in an exhausted heap beside him.

"Thank you," she said, between ragged breaths. "Thank you."

"No -- thank you," he said, reaching out to take her into his arms. But the control he had enjoyed up until now was rapidly dwindling. The energy he'd expended had exhausted him and he could feel himself growing fainter. He had to content himself with the lightest touches of his lips on her lips and brow as gradually her breathing slowed and deepened, and she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. He lay and watched her until the sun started to come up and she began to stir and wake. By this time he had dwindled to practically nothing. Perhaps he was going to fade out altogether; perhaps this meant he would go to Heaven and be reunited with his beloved Emily. But some time after she got up, confused at finding herself there rather than in her tiny flat, and said goodbye to the room in general -- because she couldn't find him -- and went out of the door, he started to recover his strength.

He did not see her again that day -- but the following night she came to him again, and for many nights afterwards. They talked a great deal, and found out a lot about one another. He discovered what vaccines and antibiotics were, and phones and cars and the internet and all sorts of other strange and wonderful inventions -- and in return he told her more about his life and what the Manor had been like in his day, so that now, when Irina gave the talk about him to tourists, it went like this: