The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall

by Coulter, Catherine

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that evening

  Grayson was blessedly tired after a full day herding three excited children on the beach below the white cliffs. Mr. Ramsey didn’t find the water cold, which was astounding, and the children did indeed try to drown the both of them, as Uncle Douglas had said. Still, he wasn’t about to let himself go to sleep, not yet. She would come—she always did. He spun story ideas, wondering what new demon or spirit his manly hero Thomas Straithmore would overcome in his next adventure.

  Between one breath and the next, there she was, the resident Northcliffe ghost, the Virgin Bride. As always, she made no sound, simply appeared, hovering at the end of his bed. Her young face was as pale as alabaster, smooth and soft looking, just as beautiful and unchanging as it had been when he’d been a boy visiting his cousins so many years before. Her long pale hair hung loose down her back—beautiful hair, thick, like spun summer clouds. She floated, simply floated, shimmering like nearly colorless veils. She didn’t speak—she was dead, after all—but she thought her words. It was Uncle Douglas’s gospel that she never visited a Sherbrooke male, only suggestible, weak-minded ladies. But she’d come to him and to his cousins as well from their earliest memories, and what to make of that? The Virgin Bride was the Sherbrooke ladies’ protector, Aunt Alex said, to which Uncle Douglas snorted and muttered, “Female hysterics.”

  “Hello,” Grayson said, pulling himself up against his pillows. “I’m glad to see you. When you didn’t come to welcome me last night, I worried something had happened to you.” Although, what could happen to a ghost he couldn’t imagine. He wished again he knew her name, but she’d never told him, and he’d asked her. He almost asked her if she’d been well, then realized it was a stupid question.

  She thought to him, I was visiting your aunt Sinjun and uncle Colin and Pearlin’ Jane in Scotland. She has added flesh, and so I told her—not Sinjun, but Jane. I asked her how she could float about properly in her ridiculous pearls with the added flesh, and she threw one of her pearls at me. Grayson, I must tell you, there is something about Olafar Ramsey, the twins’ tutor. He is not what he seems.

  He was still thinking about Pearlin’ Jane gaining flesh, wondering how the devil a ghost could gain flesh. She didn’t eat, so— “What do you mean? Have you seen him act strangely? Have you seen him mistreat the children?”

  She swayed a bit, leaned closer. Oh no, Olafar loves children as much as I do. Ah, P.C., what a smart little nubbin she is. And Barnaby, he’s a beautiful child, so full of life. I know I have seen someone who resembles him. My little Pip tells me ghost stories, just like you did, Grayson. No, it is not that at all. Olafar is different. He is not a demon, at least I do not think he is, but he is not quite human like you either. I am not certain what he is. His heart, it beats very loudly, but perhaps he was simply frightened when I appeared to him and I am wrong. But I do not think so. I asked him who he was, and he told me readily enough. When I asked him what he was, he said he was himself, nothing more. And what does that mean?

  I am worried, Grayson. You must find out who he is, what he is. I expect you to see to it. I must admit I like him. He is shy, but—

  There was a light knock on his door. As it opened, the Virgin Bride simply disappeared. Grayson whispered to the blank air, “Wait, what about Barnaby’s father? Who is he? What about Olafar not being like me?” But she was gone. Pip ran full tilt to the bed and leaped up. Grayson scooped him into his arms, held him. “What is wrong? Is someone ill?”

  Pip hiccupped against his father’s neck. “No, no, a nightmare, Papa. P.C. woke me up, told me to stop being a baby, that there weren’t any dragons in the room, but there were, Papa, there were, but they left. Then she whispered in my ear she’d heard you talking to someone, and how could that be when you weren’t close by the nursery? So we came.” Pip craned his head around. “I told P.C. you were probably talking to the Virgin Bride. Where is she, Papa? She hasn’t visited me yet.”

  P.C. hovered a moment in the doorway, then raced to the bed to jump up and snuggle next to him and Pip. “I heard you talking, sir, and I knew someone must be talking back to you, but I couldn’t hear her. Pip told me it was a girl ghost from before people spoke English properly, but of course I didn’t believe him.”

  Grayson hugged her. “You heard me speaking? But how is that possible, P.C.?”

  “I don’t know, but I did, and I knew it was a female. Yes, it was a she, and I thought of my mama and knew she might shoot you if there was a lady in your room, and since she isn’t here, I knew I had to take care of it myself. A ghost? That is absurd, despite what Pip says.” Still, P.C. looked about, but the room was dark and she couldn’t see very far. “Where is the lady, sir? In the armoire? I don’t see her. And why do you have a lady in your bedchamber? What gall.”

  “I tried to tell her, Papa, you were speaking to the Virgin Bride, but she said I was a loony and to shut my trap and stop trying to scare her, that only Thomas Straithmore speaks to ghosts and demons and spirits. Well, and her grandmama speaks to Alphonse all the time, but he’s not a ghost, he’s a picture.”

  Grayson wanted to laugh, but he held it in. He himself had spoken to Alphonse once, a courtier in Queen Bess’s court in the late sixteenth century. A powerful presence was Alphonse, both during his life and after his death. Grayson said, “Pip’s right, I was speaking to the Virgin Bride, P.C. She lives here at Northcliffe. She died a very long time ago. I imagine she’ll visit you, just as she visits Pip and his cousins, Douglas and Everett. Perhaps Barnaby too. She loves children.”

  P.C. came up on her knees and crossed her arms over her white nightshirt. “That won’t do, sir, although as an excuse it might fool Pip. No, my mama will say I made it up to protect you, and mayhap she’ll swat me. She won’t like this at all. Where is she, sir? Where is this so-called ghost lady?” P.C. called out, “I know you’re here. Come out and show yourself. Promise me you are not trying to steal Mr. Sherbrooke’s attentions from my mama.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grayson grinned at her beloved little face. “No one is trying to steal my affections, P.C. In fact, your mama knows I’m going to tell the Virgin Bride all about her, but I imagine she already knows. I don’t know how she does it, but she does. She is the protector of the Sherbrooke ladies. You must never be afraid of her. She isn’t hiding in the armoire, P.C.”

  “I really tried to tell her about the Virgin Bride, Papa,” Pip said again. “But she’s a girl and thinks she knows everything,” he added over his shoulder to P.C., and she poked him in the arm, gave him a little push, and plastered herself to Grayson’s side. He made room for both children.

  Grayson said, “P.C., the Virgin Bride was born during the reign of Good Queen Bess in the sixteenth century. She was only sixteen when she died, on her wedding night, she told me. She was welcoming me to Northcliffe Hall. I’m sure she’ll visit you soon.”

  Pip said, “Douglas and Everett told me last year she likes to play guessing games with them, sort of like a tutor.”

  P.C. frowned at Pip. This was new. “What kind of guessing games?”

  Pip said, “Well, she asked them what would happen if they fell off the earth, since it’s flat.”

  “The world isn’t flat, and so I shall tell her,” P.C. said, then she fell quiet. Grayson could practically hear her thinking. What an amazing child she was. She said, “I have decided I will not believe in this Virgin Bride until she comes to me.” She raised her voice. “If you are really here, Virgin Bride, come and say hello to me.”

  To Grayson’s surprise, the Virgin Bride shimmered at the foot of the bed, lighting the chamber. Pip said, “Here she is. Hello, Mathilde.”

  Mathilde? “How do you know her name, Pip? She’s never told me.”

  “I asked her, Papa.”

  P.C. stared at the apparition, not at all frightened, and slowly nodded. “I am P.C. If my mama continues to love Mr. Sherbrooke, he might be my step-papa. I’m older than Pip. You ca
n tell me things he wouldn’t understand. Do you like being a ghost?”

  Mathilde thought to all of them, No one gave me a choice. I was dead and then I was here. If a ghost could sigh, Mathilde did. I was named after William the Conqueror’s wife, Mathilde, a lady my mother much admired. I miss my little dog. His name is Arthur. Grayson, Olafar wants Arthur. I heard him muttering about Arthur, how to get to him. Does he want my little dog, or another Arthur? Of course I welcomed him. But still— She broke off, then, Your uncle Douglas’s joints are paining him. I must go wake Alex so she can apply the cream. And she was gone.

  “How could she leave? I have so many questions.” P.C. was quiet a moment, then, “A ghost, a real live ghost. Hello, Barnaby. Come in. You are too late to meet Mathilde.”

  “Mathilde? Another girl? Where is she? What is she doing in Mr. Sherbrooke’s bedroom? Your mama wouldn’t like that, P.C.”

  “She’s a ghost, clothbrain. She’s called the Virgin Bride. Her name is Mathilde.”

  Barnaby climbed up on the bed and snuggled next to Pip. “There ain’t any such things as ghosts, P.C., leastwise there shouldn’t be. I bet you’re trying to impress Mr. Grayson, making up ghost tales to scare him.”

  P.C. reached over and punched him. “Mama would scold you if she heard you say ain’t. It’s aren’t, you saphead—there aren’t any such things. Don’t forget. Mind your grammar. And yes, since I have met a ghost right here at the foot of the bed, I declare there are ghosts.” She said to Grayson, “Barnaby still forgets proper English when something unexpected happens, like a ghost popping up. It’s all right, Barnaby. The Virgin Bride will like you, maybe even correct your grammar.” She frowned, said to Grayson, “If she’s been dead a long time, shouldn’t she speak funny, like everyone did in the olden days?” P.C. paused, considered. “I know—I’ll ask her when Barnaby and I will get married.”

  Barnaby whimpered.

  Grayson started to say even a ghost couldn’t know the future, then he paused, wondered. Grayson snuggled in with the three small warm bodies and marveled at what life and the afterlife served up. It was a pity that in another year or so, none of the three children would dream of cuddling with him in the middle of the night. He savored the moment as he fell to sleep, feeling three heartbeats, three warm breaths against his neck, his arms. His last thought: What was Olafar Ramsey? Was he really after Arthur, the Virgin Bride’s dog? No, that was ridiculous. The only other Arthur Grayson knew about was King Arthur, but he was even longer dead than the Virgin Bride’s little dog. No, the Virgin Bride’s name was Mathilde, a very pretty name.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning

  Late the following morning, the adults were in the drawing room, waiting for Olafar Ramsey to come down with the children for the promised visit to Clangston-Abbott, a nearby village boasting a certain Mrs. Whimsey’s special scones and Devonshire cream. Grayson turned to his uncle. “How did you sleep, Uncle Douglas?”

  Douglas blinked at him. “Splendidly, of course,” he said.

  Alex said to Grayson, “The Virgin Bride told me his finger joints were causing him discomfort, so I smoothed them with the special cream. He never really woke up, but I know his sleep eased.”

  “Special cream, Aunt Alex?”

  She nodded. “The Virgin Bride gave me the recipe. That is, of course, she thought it to me. It was fashioned by her great-aunt Meg, said to be a witch and a healer. It works.”

  Douglas grunted.

  The Sherbrooke butler, Maximus—tall, strapping, perfect white teeth, and hair black as the stallion Grayson had seen—strode in his stately manner into the drawing room, cleared his throat, and announced in a ringing deep voice, “My lord, my lady, the Smythe-Ambrosios are here.”

  “This is unexpected,” Alex said, rising slowly. “Grayson, the Smythe-Ambrosios are newcomers to the neighborhood, here for only nine years. They have three sons, seven grandchildren. I was told by Lady Marsdon that their niece, a Miss Elphinstone, is currently visiting them from Antwerp, Belgium. A surprise visit, she told me.”

  Grayson and Uncle Douglas rose as an older couple—both very short and plump, both dressed to the nines—came into the drawing room, both wearing big smiles. In their wake came a young lady dressed in a deep forest-green gown and a high-plumed hat, a green ribbon the same shade as her gown tied beneath her chin. She towered over them, looking for the world like she was herding them. Miss Elphinstone, Grayson assumed. She looked to be in her midtwenties. Her hair was a soft brown, her eyes a darker brown. Her skin was as white and smooth as a new snowfall. She was quite pretty, an unusual small dent in her chin to add even more charm. After greetings and introductions, she gave both Alex and Douglas a lovely curtsey. As for Grayson, she simply gave him a long look, then a slow smile. She gave him her hand, and he kissed her wrist.

  Grayson was established quickly as a nephew of the earl, a widower, and thus of great interest, it seemed to him when Mrs. Smythe-Ambrosio eyed him speculatively and began praising his ever-so-exciting novels. As for Miss Elphinstone, when asked, she replied she had not, unfortunately, read any of Mr. Sherbrooke’s surely splendid novels. Finally came the reason for the visit. The Smythe-Ambrosios were here to extend an invitation to a small dinner party with some dancing perhaps, on Friday evening. Impromptu, don’t you know, for their beloved niece. Naturally, the invitation was accepted.

  Grayson heard the children’s voices, and he rose. He said all that was proper and excused himself. To his surprise, Miss Elphinstone rose as well. She said, “I would like to meet your children, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

  “Only one of them is mine, the youngest one, Pip. Children, come meet Miss Elphinstone. Where is Mr. Ramsey?”

  Pip, P.C., and Barnaby were huddled together, talking in whispers. Grayson – a father – knew they were planning an adventure, undoubtedly one he wouldn’t like. It was obvious they were anxious to leave, but manners were manners, drummed into them since they could walk, with the exception of Barnaby, but he was learning fast.

  Grayson introduced the children to Miss Elphinstone. Greetings were exchanged. The children were polite, even though their feet were tapping to be gone. Grayson looked around, asked again, “Where is Mr. Ramsey?”

  Barnaby, who was staring at Miss Elphinstone, said, “Mr. Ramsey said he would meet us at the stables, sir, and we were to go along with you.” Barnaby added without pause to Miss Elphinstone, “You’re awfully pretty, ma’am.” She immediately bent down and looked Barnaby in his bright blue eyes. P.C. moved closer, not about to allow a female poacher near her future husband. Not a fool, Barnaby added quickly, “I mean, you’re not as pretty as P.C. or her mama, Miss Miranda, but still—”

  Miss Elphinstone laughed and lightly touched her fingertips to Barnaby’s face. “And you, Barnaby, who are your parents?”

  “I don’t have parents, ma’am. I was found on the church steps, and then the Great brought me to Wolffe Hall and made me a barn cat. Been a barn cat all me life.”

  “He was the finest barn cat in the neighborhood,” P.C. said and moved closer, trying to squeeze in between this too-lovely lady and Barnaby. “He has left his barn cat days behind him because he will be my future husband. He lives in the hall now, in his own bedchamber, and my mama is teaching him the Queen’s English so he won’t embarrass her when he’s her son-in-law.”

  Miss Elphinstone looked enchanted by these confidences. She said, “You look familiar to me, Barnaby, and that is odd since I am from Belgium. Hmm. No idea who his family is?” She looked up at Grayson.

  “No, and the Wolffe family has looked for many years now, but no luck. You know, he looks familiar to me as well. I’ve also been trying to find out who his parents are and why he was left on the church steps in our village.”

  Miss Elphinstone lightly patted Barnaby’s face, then turned to take P.C.’s small hand between hers. She leaned closer, whispered, “What does P.C. stand for?”

  P.C., all prim and proper, said, “I regret I can
not tell you, ma’am. It is a lifelong secret.”

  Miss Elphinstone said, “I have a name I did not like either. Like you, I did something about it. I’m R.M. Do you know what that stands for?”

  P.C., all her attention now on the tall lady, said, “Perhaps Roberta Mary?”

  “Oh no, that is much too pretty. Hmm, P.C. Is your name Pertinella Constanza?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s much worse.” She went up on her tiptoes and whispered against Miss Elphinstone’s lovely white ear, “I will go to my grave before I tell a single soul.” Then she stared a moment at Miss Elphinstone and came even closer. She whispered something none of them heard and straightened, smiling up at Miss Elphinstone.

  Miss Elphinstone threw back her head and laughed deeply. The children stared at her, and then they began laughing even though they didn’t know why.

  Grayson said, “P.C., what did you tell Miss Elphinstone?”

  P.C. looked sly and shook her head. “It is a confidence between ladies, sir. I cannot tell you. Miss Elphinstone, would you like to go with us to Clangston-Abbott to eat scones and Devonshire cream? Mr. Straithmore—well, it’s really Mr. Sherbrooke—he’s promised we would visit Mrs. Whimsey’s shop.”

  Grayson couldn’t believe his ears. P.C. was actually inviting another lady to accompany them? Usually, P.C. was fiercely protective of her mother, always had an eagle eye out for any possible poacher. What was going on here?

  As it turned out, Miss Elphinstone was unable to accompany them, much to P.C.’s sorrow. When pressed by P.C., however, she said she would be delighted to ride with them on the morrow, if she was able to leave her aunt and uncle. “I wish my beautiful snow-white mare was here, but alas, she is at home.” She smiled at P.C. “Her name is S.W.” Of course the children wanted to know what the initials stood for, but Miss Elphinstone only shook her head. “I promised never to tell.”