My name is Milton Davis and I am dead. Not long time dead, you understand. So don’t worry I’m not going to bore you to death with tales of my passing (although it is interesting). And trust me some stories get stale after a century, or after the first telling. You wouldn’t believe it, but the townhouse I’m staying at in London has this chap who walks around with his head on a pike. It’s a good thing too since we fellow spirits know to flee when we hear his thump/shuffling gait. Trust me, once you’ve heard one decapitation story, you’ve heard one too many.
Wait, where was I?
Oh yes. I was freshly buried two years ago. Not in my best suit, I might add. My mother picked out my clothes. Sure, you can blame that shudder on my cold presence, but let me tell you I had wonderful suit straight from my London tailor that I hadn’t worn. She could have buried me in that, but no. I think she gave it to my brother. I’m sure I saw him wearing it during my funeral. Fiona agrees with me.
Who’s Fiona?
She is, er, was my fiancé. We’d known each other for ages and I was quite fond of her. She underwent a bad patch what with that havey-cavey business in her past. Not that I paid much attention to gossip. I was busy chasing the lady-birds and racing my carriage.
I was quite a whip, so don’t believe the innuendo bandied about upon my death. Yes, I died in a carriage race, but I overcorrected my extremely well-matched and feisty steads to avoid hitting a youngster. Does anyone mention that the lad survived without a scratch. No, all the was recorded was I lost the bet.
Hhurumph. At least, that was not engraved on my tombstone.
Alas, I’ve digressed again.
I’m in London to find Fiona a husband. You see, I’m pretty sure part of the reason I haven’t crossed over is her unhappiness. How do I know she’s unhappy? Have you seen her clothes. Nasty bits of serviceable fabric in drab colors. Ugh, when we were together she had the finest gowns straight from Worth in Paris.
And what’s worse, she’s taken up business. Imagine a woman in business. Sure it is now 1892 (or there a bouts, it’s hard to keep track of time) but somethings should never change. Women belong in the home, or if necessary for me to grow my business doing charitable works and hosting parties.
Yes, I know, I know. My armor hasn’t become tarnished in death. I am still willing to rescue her because I love her.
How do I benefit?
Well, naturally, I’ll go on to my reward and enjoy an eternity of delights, preferably voluptuous with black hair and…
Ahem. As I was saying, I’m a ghost and that’s not without certain powers. For instance, if you think servants know things, image what a ghost can hear and see without the living knowing. I do enjoy the walking through walls bit, too. Lately, I’ve taken to making my presence known to Fiona’s unpleasant relations. My favorite activities have been to dump Piers’s snuff box down his shirtfront and to cool his food.
I save Fiona more than once and deserve to be remembered as the hero in Fiona’s story (not that Kingslea fellow). If you don’t believe me, read it for yourself.