EXCERPT

The Mists of Midnight

by

Michelle M. Pillow

Chapter One

Rothfield Park, England, 1812

"My heart pounded in a violent fit! And the child, she would not quit screaming," exclaimed Jane Drake to her oldest and most treasured sister. Her round eyes echoed the power of her conviction as they shone through the glass frames of her spectacles. "I swear to you, Imogen. It was real! There are unrested spirits at Rothfield Park!"

Jane’s usually meek expression was pale fright. Absently, she pushed her sliding spectacles up her nose. Her pink linen gown flowed as she walked, reflected in the flush of her rosy cheeks. The high empire waist was belted with a dark pink sash and ribbons of matching fancy bound up her dark brown hair. Despite the richness of her gown, Jane had an indifferent air to her, an untidiness that was rather endearing.

"It was a dream," returned Imogen calmly. She sighed, her concerned blue eyes meeting her sister’s wide brown ones. Jane was such a sweet girl. Imogen loved her dearly. However, her bookish sister had something of a wild imagination when it came to Rothfield Park.

Imogen had half a mind to rebuke the servants for telling the girl such fanciful tales upon their family’s arrival. Patting her sister’s white cheek with a soft, kidskin glove, she whispered, "Oh, Jane, we have let Rothfield Park for nigh six whole months. If there were spirits lurking about the manor they would have made themselves known before now."

"But I think they are making themselves known. I have heard them about this week past," insisted Jane. "I know there is more than one of them. There is the terrified child. And a man--"

"Jane, I will hear no more. Quit trying to frighten me." Imogen shivered, disliking the supernatural talk. She had no idea why Jane was so apprehensive lately, but it needed to stop. Then an idea struck Imogen. "Did you just read that new shilling shocker novel that Harriet sent to you from London?"

"Yes. But, I--" began Jane.

"Shhh," hushed Imogen. "Therein lies your problem. You have been staying up late reading in bed, have you not? And to waste such a gifted mind on such rubbish!"

Jane meekly nodded at the loving correction. Imogen smiled at the young girl and gave her an impish wink. Jane was only sixteen and still very impressionable. Harriet loved to exploit the youngest Drake’s fancies by giving such gifts. Satisfied that her sister’s fears were for naught, Imogen relaxed.

"You had best be careful speaking of such things, especially to mother. She will have Reverend Campbell here in an instant to exorcise this house from demons," Imogen paused to stare with wide-eyed impishness. "Can you imagine such a thing? The Scotsman would--"

"Imogen, please," broke in Jane before her sister could say aught that would insult the poor vicar. "He is a man of God."

"He is a self-righteous prig who I believe is taken to drink." Imogen’s prettily coiffured hair tossed around her head in gentle, dark curls, the fine muslin of her blue and cream gown swishing as she moved past her sister to the sideboard.

Seeing the customary tray of pastries her parents had the servants set out for breakfast, she ignored the stacked plates, chose one and took a bite, leaning over the tray and using her gloved hand to catch any crumbs that fell ... Jane frowned and turned her head away.

A maid, seeing her rushed forward with a shake of her head. Grabbing a plate, she held it under the crumbling pastry. Imogen sighed. With a heavenward roll of her eyes, she relinquished the pastry to the fine china. The maid rushed the plate to the table, pulling back a chair for her mistress. Imogen dusted her gloves and waved the woman away with an annoyed toss of her hand. The maid backed from the room with a polite curtsey.

"Imogen," began Jane when they were once again alone. "Please, you must believe me. There was a child in my chamber yestereve. I could hardly sleep from the fright of it."

"Oh, my most prudent sister, I would believe you if the idea were not so fantastic a notion. But I think I would rather be more apt to believe you if you were to say my horse grew another set of legs over night. This house is not haunted. And, hate the isolation of Rothfield as I do, I cannot give credence to such a conception."

"You think me a silly girl, do you not?" asked Jane.

"No, sweet Jane," Imogen answered. She smiled tenderly, a look saved only for her young sister. Jane was her truest friend.

Viscount Sutherfeld, their father, had moved his three daughters far from London and the influence of high London society, believing it had been breeding insensible ideas into the girls’ heads. The middle sister, Harriet Drake, was the first to protest to their Aunt Mildred so that the old woman took pity and invited her to stay in her home in London. Once a month they would receive a dutiful letter from Harriet gloating about the fine society she was keeping and her hopes of snagging a suitable and reliably rich husband of consequence. The thought brought a frown to Imogen’s features. Jane looked at her in wonder.

"I do not think you are silly," asserted Imogen. "I think you are bored, as you must be in such a place as this. Too bad a regiment of soldiers will not come to stay in Haventon so that we might for once give a suitable ball."

"I do not mind it so much," allowed Jane softly, who had only been out for one season. That one season was enough to convince the littlest Drake she would much prefer to stay in the country. Scratching thoughtfully at her mousy brown hair, she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. "I should not like it with Aunt Mildred. I do hate having to make conversation with such men as are at balls. I never know what to say to them, and they never seem to be listening to me unless I speak of you or Harriet."

"You do say the strangest things," Imogen mused.

Deciding it best to change the subject, Jane forgot about her ghosts for a moment. Shyly, she acclaimed, "You look very prettily done up, Imogen. Is Mr. Tanner coming to call on you?"

"Yes," smiled Imogen forgetting her depression instantly with the name of her most gallant suitor. Sighing, she instantly thought of his dark blonde hair and laughing brown eyes. Her Edward was always in such fine spirits that it was impossible to think of anything contrary to happiness. "He is. I am sure that he will seek permission of father soon. And though he has not a lot of money, I think with my dowry and his smart investing, we will be reasonably well off. Already I have expressed my desire to go to London and Bath. And I have it on good authority that he might have expectations of his own, though he would not tell me the exact details."

Jane tried to smile, but couldn’t. She did not want to think of Imogen leaving her. Hesitantly, she inquired, "And what of the Colonel? He seems very smitten."

"Colonel Wallace?" shot Imogen in surprise. Her hand fluttered to her chest. "Please, Jane! Whatever made you think of the Colonel?"

"It is just when you were sleeping this morning he came to visit with father. I do not flatter myself that he came for me," said Jane. Imogen did not see her sister’s jealous blush as she turned to glance out the side window overlooking the front drive of the house. The long, straight graveled road disappeared into the distance, hiding all of their neighbor’s homes from sight. Along each side of the drive were numerous shrubs, sculpted to perfection.

"Is he still here?" asked Imogen, hating that she might be forced to entertain the quiet man. He was as sparing with his smiles as he was his praise. She should abhor such a man as he for company, let alone husband. The only thing recommending Colonel Wallace besides the fact that his uncle was the owner of Rothfield Park, and in essence their landlord, was that he was rich in his own right. Once the Colonel’s uncle died, he would come into even greater wealth. But what was wealth if it brought with it no happiness? Imogen shivered.

"No, I believe he must have gone away by now. But father wished me to send you to him when you were of a mind to come from your room. I suppose I should have told you right off, but I wanted you to myself before he put you in a mood."

"It is not father who I find to be disagreeable. It is mother." Imogen glowered naughtily as she walked past her sister to the large paneled doors. Resting her gloved hand on the mahogany, she grumbled, "Too bad she could not have gone to London with Harriet. Mayhap, you should speak to her and get her to go. I should like the country better if she were not in it."

Jane did not bother to scold. Instead she smiled. Her eldest sister and mother were rarely on speaking terms. It was not unusual for sennights to pass with nary a word uttered between the two. Imogen turned around to face her.

"If it would please you, we can exchange rooms. I swear I have never heard so much as a single moan in my chamber," said Imogen.

Jane’s eyes lit up. "But that is because my room is in the section of the house that was rebuilt after the fire. I am sure something tragic happened that night. I would very much like to help the poor child."

"Nonsense," broke in Imogen. She refused to pay heed to such things as ghosts. "But, we will trade, if it will help you to sleep easier."

"Yes, thank you," gushed Jane. Imogen nodded, forgetting the bothersome business as soon as she left the dining room.

Rothfield Park was an old estate, having been renamed for the Marquis of Rothfield who, in some sixty years past, had restored and expanded the estate to one of grandeur and good taste. Soon after having finished the very last detail of the very last room, however, a fire had mysteriously alighted and burned down a good section of the house. The flames were said to have killed a few servants and a child. It was also rumored that the meticulous Marquis went mad at having all his work destroyed and soon after died himself, leaving the estate and title to a cousin--Colonel Wallace’s uncle.

No wonder Jane believes this house haunted, thought Imogen in hard-pressed amusement. She barely gave credence to the story of the house. She assumed it was exaggerated for the sake of bored country folk. How else are the good people of Haventon going to get the high society of London to visit them way up north in the middle of nowhere?

Still, even Imogen had to admit that, for the generously lenient price they paid for the letting of the house, it was a wondrous place. She could not understand why the Marquis would have built it in such an area, but nevertheless appreciated his eye for fine detail, from the tall white walls of the main hall, trimmed and outlined with fine mahogany, to the expansive archways and shutters of the same wood, to the pristine marble floors of the adequately sized ballroom. Only a few of the pieces of furniture had arrived with the Drake family, the aged lines oddly out of place with the fine, understated elegance of the furnishing that belonged with the house. The gentle curves of the Rothfield furniture collection were of an older style, not the fine Palladian style of modern day, but were still very gracious and befitting of a great estate. Rich tapestry lined the chairs and settees.

Candleholders and fireplaces, sweeping draperies and finely paned windows, all graced their proper places, and strewn along the carved stone mantles and wooden tabletops were an immense variety of vases, sculptures and clocks. Large portraits of people and dogs lined the vast walls, hung on damask and Genoa velvet. Their clothing was antiquated and their faces unrecognizable so that Imogen found they were hardly worth looking at except out of boredom.

Along the east wing were the bedrooms, each large and fine to behold. Imogen imagined that they were not so fine as they should have been, belonging to a Marquis, but they were well enough for the Drake family’s needs. The bedrooms had fireplaces and huge four poster beds, potted plants and sturdy furniture. Drawing rooms and dressing rooms adjoined each one.

The house was built in the shape of a ‘U’, with a paved courtyard and working fountain in the center. Beyond the house were the dense woods fanning in one direction--great for hunting deer her father claimed, though he never hunted--and through the woods a stream.

Between the house and woods were beautiful landscaped gardens, not so well manicured as one would desire, but adequate still. There was a beauty to the untamed vining of roses in the spring and summer, and to the broken cobblestone pathways that led around the grass covered grounds, turning to earthen byways as they twisted through part of the woods. There, various plants and flowers grew--some of them wild. Their bright colors dotted the land and added sweet fragrance to the air.

Often in the morning hours the land would look foggy with an early mist that gathered in the night. It was not so unusual an occurrence since they were so close to Scotland. However, the mist only added to the servant’s superstitious fears and often they would warn about venturing out in it too late at night or too early in the dawn. Imogen laughed at such warnings, shaking her head in tolerant bemusement.

Turning her steps to the library where her father could usually be found, Imogen took a deep breath and patted her hair. As she reached for the door, it opened. To her dismay, she came face to face with Colonel Wallace. Realizing he saw her, she curtsied. Her gaze barely moved over his rigid face and what Imogen believed to be a constantly disapproving countenance.

"Colonel Wallace," she acknowledged with a polite nod of her head. She refused to smile at him, not wanting to encourage any misplaced affection he might have developed for her.

"Miss Drake," he returned in his usual curt fashion. "I was hoping to meet with you this morning."

"Oh," said Imogen. She looked away. With forced airiness, she claimed, "I cannot imagine what for!"

"It is my wish to be allowed to call on you this evening, before supper of course," said the Colonel. His tone was hard and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for doubts of his intentions.

He speaks to me as if I was one of his men to be ordered about! thought Imogen in disgust. Flippantly, she responded, "Well, alas, good sir, it cannot be my wish. My afternoon is already promised to another. I believe you have been introduced to Mr. Tanner?" Imogen waited for his reluctant nod. Smiling, she said, "I thought as much."

Before she could continue, the Colonel broke in politely, "Most unfortunate for me. Your parents, however, have invited me to dine tonight and I should be happy to speak with you at that time. Good day, Miss Drake."

"Good day, Colonel," she answered with a curtsey to match his bow, unable to do otherwise after such an abrupt dismissal. Shaking her head, she waited until he was let out the front door before turning to join her father.

"Ah, Imogen!" exclaimed the Viscountess, Lady Sutherfeld. She beamed a most gracious smile as she stood from a low chair.

Imogen eyed her mother’s good humor with a sense of foreboding. Nodding, she acknowledged, "Mother. Father."

"Come in, Gennie, come in," Lord Sutherfeld said with a merry wave, favoring his eldest daughter with a delighted smile and motioned her toward a chair.

Imogen seated herself dutifully. As she watched, her father cleared his throat and then turned to some of the papers on his desk. Gathering them up, he organized and stacked them neatly into a pile.

Imogen waited patiently as her father went through the ritual of looking busy as he collected his thoughts. Seeing a frown develop the more he collected, she squirmed uneasily. Glancing at her mother’s happy blue eyes, she learned nothing from the woman but that she was pleased solely with herself, as was always the case when her mother was concerned.

The Viscountess was a pretty woman for her advanced years. And though she was prone to a hearty dislike of her eldest child--whom she blamed for the slight roundness to her figure--she often hid it behind a smiling mask, knowing that many men admired her for her dainty contrivances of pleasure.

When her father did not readily speak, Imogen said, "The Colonel has told me you wish him to dine this evening. I wish it were not so for I have already allowed Mr. Tanner to come this afternoon. It was my hope that you would also see fit to allow him to dine."

"Well, of course we would not wish to appear inhospitable to your guest," said the Viscountess. She looked helplessly at her husband, wishing him to deny his daughter’s request. When he did not answer, merely continued to gather into thought, the Viscountess uttered, "But, mayhap the invitation would be better if postponed to another night."

"I don’t see why, mother," protested Imogen as meekly as she could manage. "Colonel Wallace will surely not mind. Already, I have told him of Mr. Tanner’s coming today to see me--"

"Oh, Imogen!" gasped the Viscountess. "You did no such thing!"

"Why, yes, mother. I saw no reason not to. Besides, the Colonel is rather tiresome company and I think that table conversation could be much lightened by what Mr. Tanner has to impart." Imogen smiled sweetly. Inside she wanted to scream.

"I’m sorry to hear you say that," stated the Viscount before his wife could speak. He saw well the fight brewing between the women. Imogen looked expectantly at her father. The Viscountess looked demurely at her lap. "We will get to the Colonel in a moment. First, I have to discuss something of great discontent to us all--Ms. Martens."

Imogen cringed, having completely forgotten her last disagreement with the governess. "Oh, father, you cannot believe that dreadful woman!"

"That dreadful woman is the finest governess we could get to come--" started the Viscountess.

The Viscount cleared his throat, interrupting his wife. Without glancing at her, he stated, "Ms. Martens was a highly competent woman and you vexed her quiet grievously. She has left her position here as of this morning."

Good! thought Imogen. She hid her triumphant smile. It had taken her only two short months to get rid of the insufferable woman. "I wish I could say I was sorry for it, father, but the woman was a bore. And I daresay her French was that of … lower society."

The Viscountess paled at such a thought, but she was for once at a loss for words.

"Be that as it may, you need someone to guide you," stated her father.

"I am above the age of needing a governess," complained Imogen, unable to hide her pout. "I am just turned twenty-one. I am not a child to be led about by the hand."

"That has yet to be proven," mused the Viscount under his breath. Seeing Imogen’s stricken face, he stated, "I have decided not to get you another governess."

"That’s wonderful!" exclaimed Imogen happily.

"What?" shot the Viscountess in horror. "My dear, dear lord husband, you cannot mean for me to escort our daughters everywhere? Whenever would I have the time?"

"No, my lady," said the Viscount. His eyes held only a passing fondness for his wife as he looked at her. She was an amiable companion to him, one who had still been blessed with charm and looks even after children. For that he gave small thanks. "I have decided that our daughter needs someone more commanding if they are to properly educate her and not be frightened away by her outspokenness."

"Father?" asked Imogen in growing apprehension.

"I will hire you a tutor," stated the Viscount proudly. He beamed with his own cleverness. "I think an educated man is just the thing for our Imogen."

"But, propriety," broke in the Viscountess weakly, her face paling with the threat of a swoon. Frantically, she began to fan herself.

"Get ahold, my lady," sighed the Viscount, unaffected by his wife’s theatrics. Turning his quick eye back to his daughter, he began, "Mr.--"

"Father?" whispered Imogen, not hearing him. The Viscount continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

"He is beyond reproach. I have here the highest recommendation of his character and have spoken extensively about him with the Colonel. Now, Colonel Wallace has allowed that such a fine character of sound mind and impeccable reputation will not be improper at all, considering Imogen is never alone with such a man in a private atmosphere. And it is my hope that you, my dear Gennie, will learn from him the proper discourse to be had with a gentleman. No more speaking of horseflesh and breeding, do you hear me?"

Imogen flinched. Ms. Martens had caught her conversation with Mr. Tanner the week before and had harped endlessly. She should have known the woman would have tattled to her father about it.

"And why would the Colonel be involved in such a decision as to my tutor?" inquired Imogen with a frown. Seeing her mother’s teary smile, she felt her body weaken.

"Colonel Wallace is rather taken with your charms, my dear," stated the Viscount.

"Yes, quite taken," echoed her mother with a nod of her head.

"What are you saying, Father? By all means, speak plainly." Imogen gripped the sides of the chair, her gloved hands working hard against the rough material. Her cheeks reddened with the threat of anger.

"He wishes to marry you, daughter, and I have given him my consent. And it was agreed upon that after some intensive training of your mind and actions, he would claim you for wife and introduce you to his uncle," answered the Viscount, a bit puzzled by her reaction. "Surely, you know of his feelings?"

"No, I do not!" shouted Imogen.

"Imogen, your tone!" cried her mother.

"I will not mind my tone!" Imogen stood, desiring nothing more than to run away. "You must send him notice at once that you have changed your mind!"

"I will do not such thing," answered her father in a low, calm voice. "A gentleman does not rescind on his word without good cause. And you can forget Mr. Tanner. I will never consent to such a disagreeable man as he."

"But, the Colonel? He wishes to change me," whispered Imogen. Her skin flushed in a mix of anger and mortification. "Am I not suited as I am? He would turn me into a meek and mild plaything?"

"You overreact," stated the Viscount, scowling in displeasure. His tone became hard as he spoke. "We merely wish to see your more desirable traits polished before you are to be a wife. And you will not be entertaining Mr. Tanner tonight or again, unless it is with the Colonel’s consent. Mr. Tanner has been a most unwelcome influence over you, Gennie."

"You will receive the Colonel’s attentions tonight daughter," put forth the Viscountess.

"I will not!" growled Imogen through clenched teeth. "If he wishes to speak to me he will hear my thoughts. I will not have him. He will be wasting his time for the very character of my person, which he finds so objectionable, cannot and will not be changed. So I beg you, spare the Colonel the embarrassment of asking!"

"Will not have him? But he is worth nearly seven thousand a year!" The Viscountess fluttered her hands nervously before her face, hovering between the desire to scold her daughter and the desire to faint. "You could not hope to do much better. And as to change, a wife’s place is nothing if not sacrifice."

"And, after his uncle passes, he will own Rothfield Park," put in her father logically. "He will be the new Marquis of Rothfield."

Imogen gulped. They were serious! They wanted her to give up her chance at happiness for a man with seven thousand per year and a house whose location she abhorred.

"If you don’t marry him," claimed the Viscountess. "I shall never speak to you again. And neither shall your father."

"Then I look forward to a long and happy silence!" shouted Imogen in a huff. She rushed through the library door. Seeing Jane’s worried face as she passed through the front hall, Imogen met her sister’s stricken expression and experienced a moment’s regret She refused to cry, running from the house as fast as she could.

Ignoring Jane’s gentle entreaties, Imogen made her way quickly to the stables. The angry red of outrage and horror stung her porcelain features, burning violently against her skin.

Not seeing one groom to help her, she went straight to her mare. Grabbing a set of reins from the stall she fashioned them about the horse’s neck. Then, leading the palfrey out into the diffused sunlight, she brought the horse to the stairs so that she could maneuver onto its back with as much incensed grace as possible. Seated without the benefit of a sidesaddle, Imogen nudged the mare and tore off towards the north field where the grass was the most open.

The spirited mare bolted forward with a jerk. Imogen, having ridden since the age of four, did not think twice about her wild ride. Her skirts flew behind her, pressing against her legs and fanning over the backside of the horse. When she was well into the field, she discovered she had two choices. Either she could ride out into the clearing, well within view of the library window, or she could ride into the mist, far from the sight of her father’s perusal. Imogen chose the mist.

Once out of sight, she swung her leg over the mare’s back and adjusted her skirts so that she was better seated astride the horse. The mist grew thicker. At first, Imogen didn’t notice it. She raced past shrubs and then trees. The mare found an easy path. Its hooves pounded down a gentle incline, through a limb-covered alcove. Imogen reined the mare to a rough stop. She could hear the gentle babble of the nearby stream, but she could not see the water. The horse’s hooves pattered nervously. Before her eyes the mist grew, it expanded and thickened until she could not see the trees in front of her.

Her eyes rounded in terror. Her head snapped to one side and then another. The trees faded completely, leaving behind a consuming whiteness. The water grew louder until she could not tell from which direction it came. Turning the horse around, she urged the palfrey to move. The horse at first resisted but finally obeyed as she yelled at it to go. Imogen lay down close to the horse’s tan back, willing it to feel its way home. But the fog only thickened. The horse’s movements were slow and cautious. The animal’s ears twitched and its head bobbed in agitation.

Imogen forced a giggle. Inside she trembled. The flesh on her neck pricked. She hugged closer to the skittish mare. She could feel its hot, sweaty flesh pressing into her gown. As they moved, she watched the white fog, willing her eyes to detect anything familiar. A tree limb passed close to her face. She jolted back in alarm.

And then she heard singing, the sweet ringing of a child’s voice in play. But the melody was haunted and hard, despite its joyful laughter. It echoed in the trees. At first it was behind her, running through the mist. But as she urged the horse faster, it was beside her, keeping pace with the swift mare.

"Play," she heard the childlike whisper near her ear.

Imogen started. Tears poured over her cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The singing came from her side, growing louder. The fog became so dense she couldn’t see the horse’s ears pointed to alert. She couldn’t see her hands.

"Hello!" called Imogen, her voice cracking. "Who’s there?"

"Play," said the pouting voice again, demanding and hard.

"Who are you?" insisted Imogen. Her limbs shook. She was too afraid to move from the comfort of the horse’s back . She could feel the mare shake and jolt with each ring of laugher, each start of an eerie ballad. "What do you want?"

Suddenly, the laughing turned to tears. The mist seemed to press into Imogen’s skin. She breathed it into her lungs like the smoke from a fire. Coughing, she wheezed for air. Almost instantly, perspiration dotted her shaking skin. The horse neighed and bucked in protest. Her fingers found her throat, tearing at her gown as she fought for breath.

"I want to play with you," answered the child with a sulk in her voice. The sound of her words was hollow, garbled by a roaring Imogen couldn’t make out. Imogen coughed louder, desperate to get out of the fog. Sweetly, the voice called, "Are you my mother? Are you the girl from my bedchamber?"

"No!" screamed Imogen. She kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it forward, not caring if she was still within the trees. She would much rather take her chances against the forest.

As she began to gallop, she saw a hand shoot out from the fog trying to stop her. The masculine fingers reached for the horse’s reins. It was the hand of a man, pale and strained and strong. She saw the ruffling of a shirt. Imogen screamed louder. Her mare jolted violently and she lost the reins. The hand disappeared behind her. Imogen sat up, looking over her shoulder to see if the man was coming for her. There was nothing but mist all around.

With a relieved sigh, she turned on the horse to look forward. But her eyes never had time to focus as a branch materialized out of the fog. It struck her across the forehead, knocking her back with a sharp crack. Blood filled her mouth. Her head hit the jolting movements of the galloping rump. Her feet loosened their hold and she flipped off the back of the horse to the ground. And, as her head struck the earth, the white mist turned into enveloping darkness.

© copyright April 2004, Michelle M. Pillow

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

 REVIEWS

5 Stars

"When Michelle Pillow was writing THE MISTS OF MIDNIGHT, she brought together all the essential elements that would make this book a winner from every aspect. The intriguing plot is so well developed, I can think of nothing that would have made this story better. Her characters are one of a kind, whose emotional reactions are always credible. Ms. Pillow has written the perfect paranormal story set in the historical period of England in 1812.

In THE MISTS OF MIDNIGHT, Ms. Pillow gives us a story whose characters, whether they are the main or secondary ones, are superbly written. Dougal is a passionate man, who believes there can be no love for him, only a lonely existence. My heart ached, when I read of the tragedies in his life. Imogen often acts impulsively, but she will always try to help others. When this couple must make a decision that will deeply effect the other person’s future, they were both selfless, never thinking of themselves. If you want to read a book with a fantastic story line and characters, a believable romance, and where things are not always as they seem, then THE MISTS OF MIDNIGHT is definitely for you."

"Michelle Pillow's debut novel, The Mists of Midnight is an extremely intriguing paranormal romance.  The story takes place in regency era England, and the author's storytelling captures the reader from page one.  The secrets of the story are slowly unraveled (and) the ending of the story is beautiful and it brought tears to my eyes.  The Mists of Midnight will certainly appeal to lovers of paranormal romance in a historical setting.  I definitely recommend it."

FROM ROMANCE REVIEW TODAY:

Reviewed by Edith Morrison
Romance Reviews Today
 

"What a new way to look at what goes "Bump!" in the night! Michelle M. Pillow has created a host of characters (some with a little less substance to them!) and created a story to keep readers going till deep into the night. Wonderfully written, with a spine tingling ending. Readers may want to keep their night-lights going!"

Reviewed by Amanda Kimbrell for My Shelf.com

FROM THE ROMANCE STUDIO:

4 1/2 Hearts

"THE MISTS OF MIDNIGHT is a wonderful book, full of surprises, mystery and romance. The story is complex, and the way it unfolds is ingenious...Imogen and Dougal are both selfless, loving characters, willing to do anything for each other, and deserve the happy ending they get. This Regency romance with its paranormal twist is an emotional, satisfying read."

Sensuality rating: Mildly sensual

Reviewer: Renee Burnette

Love Romances

5 HEARTS

"Take a little bit of mystery, add a little bit of suspense, fold that into a paranormal romance and you have The Mists of Midnight by Michelle Pillow.  Ms. Pillow offers a sweet, often poignant, sometimes funny story that on the surface is about love, life and death.  The reader has two choices when reading this story:  he or she may choose just sit back and enjoy a wonderful paranormal romance, or, as this reviewer did, sit and ponder all the possibilities Ms. Pillow raises....

This reviewer read Mists of Midnight twice:  once to read and enjoy and once to truly sit and ponder the “what ifs” raised in this emotionally moving yet fun story."

Reviewed by Gina
May 2004

© Love Romances, 2001-2004. All rights reserved.

4 1/2 HEARTS

"Wow!!! What a story! Ms. Pillow has penned a delightful tale, full of chilling twists and turns….

The descriptive prose used throughout drives the story with startling clarity. One will love the beautiful landscape, feel a chill of foreboding when The Mists of Midnight unfurl, and gasp in surprise when secrets are revealed. The plot moves along effortlessly, with many shocking turns of events that will keep the reader guessing right down to the last page. Every time this reviewer thought she had things figured out, something else would happen causing all theories to be thrown out the window.

This debut novel will leave readers begging for more. With this book, a star is born, and if it is any indication, this writer is certainly one to watch. This reviewer has immediately become a fan, and Ms. Pillow is a must-not-miss author. Fortunately, many more books are already waiting in the wings, set to be released later this year."

© Kelley A. Hartsell, May 2004. All rights reserved.

“What a debut novel.  This reviewer was blown away by the sheer lushness of the setting, the way the characters intertwined with each other and all the twists and turns in the plotline.  This reviewer was riveted….  It was quite an interesting mix and Ms. Pillow does it with style and grace for her first book.  The plot was quite an interesting mix of mystery, humor and romance that sparks the reader’s interest and holds it till the end.  This reviewer found the characters multidimensional and the interplay between them was quite believable.  They seemed to come alive in the book and the reader can feel the emotions as they read the story.  By including the mystery of several aspects, Ms. Pillow blends a wonderful story set with unrested spirits and a love that goes across the ages.  When the reader opens the first page to the end of the book, you will be drawn in and root for Imogen and Dougal as they go about dealing with mysteries and love.  This reviewer enjoyed this debut immensely and found that The Mists of Midnight gives a rollicking good time with the right blend of humor, mystery and love.  This reviewer can not wait for her next book to see where she goes next.”
 

Reviewed by Dawn
May 2004

© Love Romances, 2001-2004. All Rights Reserved 

FROM FALLEN ANGEL:

5 ANGELS "Wow, wow and wow. This book touches so many emotions. I laughed, I cried, and I wanted to shout at both the hero and the heroine. What more can you ask in a story? Lets not forget the ending; you really don't see this one coming. I don't think my review of this story does this book justice. Her characters are true to life and her plot is amazing. Ms. Pillow did a great job and this book is a necessary read."

Reviewer: Jill

ALSO FROM FALLEN ANGEL:

4 ANGELS "The Mists of Midnight is filled with suspense, romance and a heavy paranormal touch. The author has written a complex story with enough twists to surprise many readers. This was truly a page-turner as the story slowly unfolded. If you enjoy a good ghost story with a large helping of romance on the side, this is the book for you. This reader was surprised and thoroughly delighted with this one."

Reviewer: Susan

4 CUPS OF COFFEE!

"The Mists of Midnight is a mystery with a romance...you won't be disappointed in this read. Keep your tissue handy, I cried towards the end, not because I was sad, but because of Ms Pillows wonderful realistic ending."

Joy Reviewer for Coffee Time Reviews

FROM THE A ROMANCE REVIEW:

FOUR ROSES:

"The mist takes on a life of its own with the eerie scenes Ms. Pillow writes. This story has a nice mixture of paranormal, suspense and romance... A tale of love conquering all.  After reading The Mists of Midnight, you will always wonder what might be hiding in the fog."

Reviewed by Jenni

 AWARDS AND RANKINGS

FICTIONWISE # 7 HIGHEST RATED EBOOK!