My Lord Ghost Read online

  Well, I thought, looking about myself, it was some consolation that Marshfield was not as run-down as I had feared. The drive had looked positively lovely until one looked more closely. Then I noticed that while the grass was well-trimmed, the trees lining the drive hadn’t seen a day’s care for at least a season, if not two. A flock of sheep in a nearby pasture accounted for the trimmed lawn. But clearly, whoever was in charge of the grounds wasn’t doing their job. I supposed it was up to me to see to that now.

  There was also a distinct lack of activity coming from the stables. When we’d stopped at my father’s estate at Pemberton, a groom had taken charge of the horses the moment we’d pulled up to the house. Here, there was no one. The grand door to the house also remained disturbingly closed, as if our approach had not only been unexpected but hadn’t even been witnessed by anyone.

  I turned to Sally. “My father did say that he had written to inform the staff that I was coming, didn’t he?”

  Sally’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know, Miss. It does seem awfully quiet.”

  “Shall I knock?” the driver asked, despite the fact that he was standing at the horses’ heads where a groom should have been.

  “No. That’s all right, Samuel. I’ll do so,” I said going to the door. I reached up and lifted the enormous metal ring clenched between lion’s teeth and let it fall. The sound it produced was rather small and insignificant, considering the size of the door. It was of a thick, solid wood, which made me worry that no one would hear the knock.

  I started to lift the ring again when the door slowly swung open, and a wizened old man was revealed. His sparse, gray hair was combed meticulously back over his scalp, and large, pale blue eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yes? May I help ye?” he asked, his broad Yorkshire accent coarsened further by a voice rough and gravelly with age.

  “I am Aglaia Grace, Lord Pemberton-Howe’s daughter,” I said. “I believe I’m expected?”

  “Ah!” The man nodded, then switched the direction of his head and seemed to shake it sadly. He stepped back reluctantly so I could enter. “Didn’t know when ye’d be coming.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” I said, stepping into the house. “I thought my father had written.”

  “Had,” the man agreed. “I just didn’t remember when...” His words trailed off, as a large, robust woman hustled toward us.

  “Och! You must be Miss Grace. Welcome. Welcome to Marshfield,” she said. There was no accompanying smile on her face. In fact, she looked positively upset at our arrival, but I took her words in a kindly fashion nonetheless.

  “Thank you,” I answered.

  “I’m Mrs. Barker, the housekeeper. Mr. Barker is the butler,” she said, nodding toward the man at the door.

  “I’m very happy to meet you both. My maid, Sally,” I said, and turned to see Sally still hovering near the door like a small, terrified mouse, our portmanteaux in either hand. It seemed as if she wasn’t certain she wanted to enter the house, but at a look from me, she bobbed the Barkers a curtsey and came in.

  “I’ll show ye to yer room,” Mrs. Barker said and turned toward the right side of the very grand stair that swooped down from either side of a wall filled with all sorts of medieval weapons. It didn’t exactly present a welcoming entrance, more of a show of strength and power instead.

  Sally stayed close as we started up the stairs after Mrs. Barker, but then quickly moved back a step with an apology when she nearly stepped on the hem of my dress. She had lost all her color.

  “That’s certainly impressive,” I said, looking over the array of weapons. “Are they real or just decoration?”

  “Oh, they’re real all right,” Mrs. Barker said. “Been used by the Bolingbrooks since the time of William the Conqueror.” She paused. “Not recently, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed, giving the woman a smile. I turned back and tried to give Sally a reassuring look, but the poor girl kept eyeing the weapons even as we continued up the stairs.

  “Here ye are,” Mrs. Barker said, opening the third door on the left down the hall.

  The room was beautiful, soothing after the harshness of the entry hall. The walls were covered in a faded rose silk with matching curtains and counterpane on the bed, along with a number of white lace pillows. It was a very delicate, feminine-looking room.

  “Oh, how pretty,” Sally said on a sigh of relief.

  Mrs. Barker nodded. “’Twas the mistress’s chamber, God rest her soul. The master’s chamber is there,” she said, nodding toward a door to the left. “Yer dressin’ room is on t’other side and there’s a small closet for yer maid.” She pointed toward a door hidden in the corner of the room.

  “Thank you, it’s very lovely,” I said, watching Sally put our cases down beside the door to the dressing room.

  The driver came in with my trunk.

  “We don’t keep fancy hours here,” Mrs. Barker continued. “Dinner’s at five.”

  I moved to the window. It looked out over the back of the house where there were formal gardens ending abruptly at a stone wall. The forest beyond seemed to be doing its best to encroach on the tamed landscape, reaching over the wall. In some places, trees had knocked it over altogether, leaving a pile of stones on the ground. They’d been there for so long, they were green with moss.

  “’Twas beautiful when the mistress was alive,” Mrs. Barker said, taking a peek out the window over my shoulder. “She kept it just as his lordship had liked it, even after he passed. The boys never cared, but her ladyship was particular about it. Hated to let things go, she did.”

  “It is a shame,” I agreed. “Is there no gardener to take care of it?”

  “Goodness, no! No one here but Mr. Barker and meself,” the older woman answered.

  “The two of you take care of this enormous house all by yourselves?” I asked, shocked. “Oh, but there must be dailies who come in, then?”

  The woman shook her head. “We’ve closed down most of it. But I hired a daily when I learned you were comin’, so you won’t be wanting.” She moved toward the door, but I could have sworn I heard her say under her breath, “We’ll see how long this one lasts.”

  “Dinner at five, Miss,” Mrs. Barker said with finality, before closing the door behind her.

  Sally gave an exaggerated shiver. “Oh, Miss, I don’t know about this.”

  I just laughed at her theatrics. “What don’t you know?”

  “This place. It gives me the willies. All those swords and such. And why would there only be two old retainers left to take care of a house this large?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose since no one’s lived here for so long, they didn’t feel the need to have more than that. We won’t be here long, Sally, don’t worry.”

  “Have you figured out how you’ll convince your father to allow you to return?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” I admitted, “but I’ll think of something. It’s entirely unfair to have been sent away just because I introduced myself to the wrong person.”

  Sally just shook her head and turned to unpack my things into the wardrobe. “You can’t do so in London, Miss,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it was like living in Greece, but things are different in London.”

  “Athens is a very beautiful city... If only we had lived there instead of at the excavation site. But we rarely went into the city.”

  “Then it’s not your fault you didn’t know how to go on,” Sally said, agreeing with what I had been saying for the past few years.

  “I can’t help it if I’m friendly.”

  Sally gave a little giggle as she continued to unpack, settling down with the routine of commonplace chores. “I don’t understand why your father sent you here, instead of to his estate.”

  “It was farther away,” I said. It was the only explanation I could come up with. “From Pemberton, I still could have easily returned to London if I’d wanted.”

  The fact that my father had sent me away at all was still
infuriating. I just didn’t understand what he expected. He’d said that he wanted me to mature before my debut, but how he thought that would happen by sending me to the back of beyond I just did not understand.

  “Well, my father will be very pleased. I’m certain I couldn’t possibly get into any trouble here. There isn’t anyone appropriate—or otherwise—to befriend.”

  I sat down on one of the pretty chairs in front of the empty fireplace.

  “Oh, now, Miss Laia, I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” Sally said with a giggle.

  “This house had better have a good library.”

  Chapter Three

  Not only was the house enormous for just four people, it was creepy. I had pooh-poohed Sally’s fears, but even as I ate my dinner that night—alone in the breakfast room because the dining room was simply too enormous for one person—there had been an odd, sort of cold sensation. It almost felt as if someone were watching me, which was ridiculous. Mrs. Barker had assured me that there was no one in the house but herself and Mr. Barker, and now me and Sally.

  I had been raised at archeological sites where human remains had been dug up along with ancient pottery and sculptures. I could certainly deal with living in an old house in Yorkshire.

  But it was truly ridiculous that I was in the breakfast room eating alone when Sally and the Barkers were enjoying their meal in the warmth of the kitchen. I would try harder on the following day to insist that I be allowed to join them.

  The library had not disappointed me, thank goodness. The Bolingbrooks had clearly been a well-read family. There was everything from Shakespeare’s plays to classical works like the Iliad and Odyssey, in their original forms as well as English translations, and even some novels. Of course, there had been a large shelf filled with books on animal husbandry and agricultural interests, but I had ignored those.

  Running my fingers along the book spines on one shelf, it made me sad to think the family that had lovingly collected all of these books was no more. On the other hand, since my father had inherited the estate, these were all mine now. I would be sure to take excellent care of them.

  With this happier thought in mind, I picked out one of my favorite novels, Waverley by Sir Walter Scott, and took it to bed with me.

  I awoke with a start. Where was I?

  The pale glow of the moon reflected off pink walls. Ah, right, Marshfield.

  I was about to close my eyes once more when I heard what must have woken me up in the first place. A creaking sound and then the slam of a door. Moans were followed by the sound of someone sobbing.

  I sat up, listening carefully. Was that Sally? I threw back the cover, ready to go to my maid. The poor girl had not been happy when we’d arrived, but she’d seemed better after dinner thanks to the kindness of the Barkers. But no, wait. I stopped, listening again.

  The cries weren’t coming from Sally’s room. And they were too low in pitch. Yes, they were definitely being made by a man.

  But where were these cries coming from, and from whom?

  Mr. Barker was the only man in the house, but I didn’t think this sounded like his voice.

  The sounds seemed to be, at one moment, coming from above, and then shift and sound as if they were coming from the room next door. The one Mrs. Barker had said was the master’s chamber. But there could be no one there; there was no master aside from my own father, and he, I knew, was safe and sound in London.

  I got up. Grateful for the moonlight, I managed to find and light my bedside candle. Donning my robe, I crept to the connecting door. Putting my ear to the door, I listened closely.

  Alternate moans and sobs mixed with wails of pure despair. Gooseflesh covered my arms.

  Very slowly, I turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked.

  It opened inward. Hesitantly, I stepped into a room bigger than my own, dominated by a large four-poster bed. Dark red curtains were drawn around the bed. I hesitated before approaching it, especially as another cry seemed to come from either within or just above it, if that were possible.

  Taking a deep but quiet breath in, I tiptoed toward the bed. My hand hesitated at the curtain’s edge. Slowly I grasped hold of the heavy fabric and began to inch it open, trying to peer inside.

  “NO!” the man’s voice yelled from behind.

  I jumped with a scream and very nearly dropped my candle as I spun around.

  Holding the meager light out before me, I searched the room for the source of the voice. But there was no one there.

  Still, the moans continued, broken by the occasional sob.

  I turned back to the bed and this time moved more quickly at opening the curtain, although, I have to admit I was not quite so fearless as to just throw it open.

  I peered through, but the bed was empty just as it should have been. What was exceedingly odd, however, was that the coverlet had been neatly folded back, as if waiting for its owner to climb in at any moment. The pillows were fluffed and ready, but there was no one there.

  I must have stood there for a full minute, staring into the empty bed and wondering where the cries were coming from, when I noticed that the sound was moving off. It was as if the person making them was walking away from the room—without the sound of a footfall.

  Never in my life had I the urge to wander abroad in the middle of the night. In fact, my two sisters teased me mercilessly at how deep a sleeper I was. But these moans and groans were so odd that I found myself following the sounds with an ever-growing curiosity.

  As I slipped nearly silently along the passageway back toward the main stair, I was tempted to laugh at myself for my midnight walk. It almost seemed like a game or a trick one of my sisters would play on me.

  That made me pause. Could it be Rose or Thalia playing a trick…? No. That didn’t make sense. I was here because I had been too bold and outgoing. My sisters wouldn’t tease me in this way when I was being punished, would they?

  Could it be possible that it was some sort of test on my father’s part? Testing to see if I would be so bold as to follow the sounds or simply cower in my bed as any other right-minded female would?

  I came very close to turning around and returning straight away to my room, but a loud thump and more wails kept me moving forward. No. My father was punishing me, not testing me. And besides, how would he have even asked anyone to play such a trick on me? He wouldn’t and he couldn’t have.

  I continued on, slipping down the stairs on silent, bare feet. I paused as I neared the entry hall. The sounds seemed to have disappeared. Could they have gone a different way?

  I turned around, went back up, and then stood in indecision looking down the hallway toward my room. The sound hadn’t gone that way. It had most certainly gone toward the other wing of the house—but how?

  In the glow of my candle shone two pale brass handholds set into the wall of the alcove to my left.

  Doors! The “wall” was in fact two pocket doors, which slid to either side. I verified this by opening one, with quite a bit of difficulty. It seemed as if these doors hadn’t been opened for some time, they were so stiff. But I managed to slide one open just enough to slip through.

  I walked into a gallery. It was the hall that connected the two wings of the house.

  A very impressive-looking man of armor stood at the entrance. For possibly thirty feet, there was portrait after portrait lining either wall, interspersed with upholstered benches along the window side, and occasional busts on pedestals on the other.

  Slowly I made my way down the hall, raising my candle up so that I could look at the portraits. Some were of families looking kindly down at me, others were of intimidating gentlemen in old-fashioned clothing, staring down as if accusing me of invading their privacy. Occasionally, there was a severe-looking woman peering down her nose at me, very much like the Duchess of Bromfield. Just the thought of that woman made me shiver with fright.

  A fresh bout of groans and a growling shout reminded me why I was there. I turned from a previous Lady Bo
lingbrook to peer down the length of the gallery. It was nearly pitch black, as all of the curtains along the outside wall were closed, so I held my candle aloft and slowly made my way toward the sounds.

  Glancing left and right, I passed by many generations of Lords and Ladies Bolingbrook depicted in both oil and an occasional plaster bust.

  About two-thirds of the way down the room, a particularly loud shout made me stop in my tracks. To my left, a man stared at me from yet another painting. His deep green eyes seemed to take me in, in a way that if he had been flesh and blood, I would have said was rather rude. I felt bared before him; he looked so deeply into my soul. His painted eyes seemed to see all that I kept secret, things I shared with no one, not even my sisters… not even with myself.

  “LEAVE! NOW!” The words seemed to come from all around me. They reverberated down the hall and back again.

  This time when I jumped, I did drop my candle.

  Luckily, it extinguished itself quickly. Or perhaps that was unlucky because I was now left in the pitch black of the gallery. Not a speck of light came from anywhere. I couldn’t even see where my candle had fallen, let alone anything else.

  “Who are you?” I called out into the dark. “Where are you?”

  “LEAVE NOW!” the voice said again, getting louder as it reached the end of the command.

  I didn’t wait for him to tell me a third time. I turned in what I thought was the right direction and sped directly into the wall.

  “Ow.” I stepped back, certain I would be seeing stars if I could see anything at all.

  I took a deep breath trying to get my bearings.

  “GET OUT!” the voice screamed.

  “I can’t find my way,” I cried, trying to hold on to the tears that pricked at my eyes. I was trembling so fiercely, my teeth were nearly chattering. My heart thumped within my chest, and a cold sweat pebbled on my skin.

  The voice, while fascinating as it had led me to this god-awful gallery of portraits, had become increasingly threatening the closer I got. Now I was more than willing to do as he said—if only I could find my way.