The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh

by Bowlin, Chasity

  “I will leave. I will be paying a visit to Lord Ramsleigh and informing of your intent to pawn off some bastard as the rightful heir. This will not stand, Viola. It will not!” He turned on his heel and stormed out as quickly as he’d entered.

  Lady Agatha exhaled sharply. “What an unpleasant man! I’m so terribly sorry, my dear, that you have had nothing but the worst of men in your life. It’s little wonder you are hesitant about Dr. Warner! Rest assured, he is cut from a much different cloth.”

  “On that we are in agreement… but if my father and Randall intend to bring Tristan’s paternity into question, embarking on a torrid affair with anyone is hardly the way to secure my son’s future.” Even now, her late husband and his worthless relatives—and her own—were controlling every aspect of her life.

  “It isn’t as if you’re taking out in advertisement in the Times! You are both under one very respectable roof and may do as you please.”

  It was a tempting suggestion, but Viola understood far better than Lady Agatha just how ruthless both her father and Randall could be. “I will consider it,” she stated simply.

  *

  Daventry had brought two letters with him, well prepared in advance. One was to inform Randall that he had succeeded in gaining Viola’s cooperation. The second was to inform him that Viola was once more proving difficult and he should proceed with his own enterprises. Carefully worded, neither of those missives could be perceived in any way to pertain to criminal activity. Weighing them in his hands, they felt completely identical in heft and size. Yet with one of them, he would be signing his own progeny’s death warrant.

  For a moment, he allowed that thought to resonate within him. In the end, like so many other things in life, it failed to spark any true sentiment. His pause had been more to measure his own actions and decide what would ultimately be the best course for him. There had been no thought about morality or sinfulness, or even any tender feelings he should have had for the young girl he’d watched grow into womanhood. At one point in time, she’d been an asset. Now she was an obstacle. As with all obstacles, she would be removed.

  “Driver, return me to the inn. I will sup there while you see this letter delivered to Ramsgate Hall. When your task is done, fetch me and we will be rid of this wretched place.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver acquiesced.

  Daventry settled back against the well-padded squab seats of his barouche. Viola had sealed her own fate, he reflected.

  *

  The only inn that the small village of Blackfield-on-Went was somewhat below his normal standards. As Cornelius wiped the bread crumbs and spattered ale from the table with his handkerchief, he realized what a gross understatement of the facts that was. He’d arrived later than anticipated. The small cottage he’d been directed to that was supposed to house his half-brother, Blackfield’s only physician, had proven to be empty.

  To the serving girl, he said, “Pardon me, but where might I find Dr. Nicholas Warner?”

  The girl stepped back immediately, a look of panic on her face. “Are you ill, sir?”

  Cornelius didn’t utter the long suffering sigh that her response begged for. Instead, he smiled politely. “Not at all. He is a relative of mine and I have arrived in town unexpectedly. I thought to visit him while I am here.”

  “Oh!” the girl said, in obvious relief. “Mr. Tarleton doesn’t like to have sick folks at the inn, sir. He insists it’s very bad for business. We had a gentlemen casting up his accounts in here a month back and I’ve never had to clean so much in my life!”

  Given that it was unlikely the place had been cleaned since, Cornelius nodded. “I’m certain it was terrible. About Dr. Warner…”

  “He’s likely up at Castle Black, sir. He and Lord Blakemore are quite thick with one another!”

  That was helpful information, at least. Hoping that Castle Black was more hospitable than its name implied, Cornelius dropped several coins on the table and rose. “Bring a pot of tea and whatever food is about that is least likely to induce illness.”

  The girl either didn’t understand that he was speaking in jest or was too intimidated by either him or Mr. Tarleton to laugh. Instead, she scurried away to do his bidding as quickly as possible. Alone again, Cornelius sat back and gave his surroundings deeper study. The inn was old. The wood furnishings were worn and scratched from use, and the cleanliness was less than pristine to be sure. But the building showed signs of recent repair and was in passably good upkeep.

  The patrons were an odd assortment of locals and travelers, as the stage and another carriage had arrived there at the same time he had. In one corner, a group of local men were deep in conversation, casting furtive glances about the room. Smugglers, he thought, but if they were, they were doing poorly at it. Each one was dressed in clothing little better than rags and while they might work on the water, from the looks of them, they’d never much been in it.

  “I’m telling you, it ain’t natural!” the swarthiest amongst them said forcefully. His voice had risen just enough that even Mr. Tarleton, the innkeeper, looked up and leveled a warning stare at him.

  “You can give me the evil eye all you like, Tarley,” the man continued. “But you was saying the same thing last night over a pint before William Wells started in on his epic tale! She were dead! We all knew it. Watched them cart her out in that box and put her right in the ground, we did!”

  “Saw them cart out a box,” Tarleton replied. “That’s all. I never seen what was in it and neither did you, Timothy Cobb! You’ll not be stirring up trouble in my establishment with your superstitions and nonsense! Get on with you now!”

  The man, Timothy Cobb, rose to his feet, swayed slightly and then lifted his hand in the tradition of all great orators as he began to pontificate. “There’s been evil at that house for decades… alls I’m suggesting is that maybe it weren’t the old lord who was the root of it! Or maybe he corrupted her! All I know is the dead ain’t supposed to come back and if’n they do, it means nothing but trouble for the living!”

  “And what do you suggest we do about it?” one of the men asked. He was clearly leery of getting into trouble, but also easily swayed by the opinions of his friend and apparent leader.

  “What we always did with witches and those that were in league with the devil,” Cobb said. “We drive her out of town!”

  “And if she won’t go?”

  “Then she burns for it!” Cobb emphasized the violence of his belief by banging heartily on the rafters, sending showers of dust down onto the tabletops.

  Several of the travelers, a few women among them, gasped in alarm. Tarleton, realizing that the would-be zealot in their midst was potentially costing him business, bristled. “That’s enough out of you. Drink down that last pint and be gone with you… and not another word about witches and the devil! The only devil in here is you, Timothy Cobb! Disturbing my customers and making these fine folks think we’re a bunch of backwards fools!”

  Cobb gripped his tankard, drained a goodly portion of the ale and let the rest run in disgusting rivulets from the corners of his mouth down onto his dirt-encrusted shirt. Finally, with a loud and rather pungent belch, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and staggered toward the door.

  Curious, Cornelius checked his watch. It was only three in the afternoon. For a man to be that drunk that early, he had to have started at first light or possibly continued from the previous night. Either way, Timothy Cobb was trouble to be sure.

  The serving girl returned carrying a tray with bread, some rather suspect cheese and pot of tea. “Tell me, girl, who was he speaking of?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to utter the name lest he’s right, sir. If she is in league with the devil and I speak of her… it might bring ruin to my whole family!”

  Cornelius considered pressing the issue, but it was only to appease his own curiosity and not because he had any need or desire to involve himself. He glanced down at the unappealing fare placed bef
ore him and made a split-second decision. He would seek his half-brother at Castle Black.

  “How do I reach Castle Black from here?”

  “You’ll need a horse. It’s too far to walk! Follow the main road out of town toward the coast. It’s the big house on the hill above the sea. It’s nearly impossible to miss!”

  “Excellent… my carriage is being repaired, hence my unexpected stop here in Blackfield. The wheelwright is to call here when it is ready. You will send word to me at Castle Black if I have not yet returned. There will be additional coin for you, if you do.”

  The girl nodded in vigorous agreement. “Aye, sir. I’ll see it’s done!”

  Cornelius moved toward the door just as it blew open, landing against the other wall with a heavy thud. The man who entered was known to him, though they were not friends. It was impossible for anyone to be truly friendly with Daventry. The man was a colder fish than any pulled from the Atlantic.

  He eyed Cornelius with disdain. “Lord Ambrose,” Daventry acknowledged.

  “Daventry. What brings you to Blackfield?” There had been some scandal about the man’s daughter being wed to Ramsleigh he recalled. What a nightmare that was!

  “Family affairs… nothing to concern yourself with,” the other man replied dismissively. “And you? You are quite far afield from London.”

  “A broken carriage wheel while returning to London, in fact,” Cornelius answered. “And I have distant relatives in the area. I’m off to Castle Black to inquire with them now.”

  The man’s face darkened, his thunderous expression turning even darker at the mention of Castle Black. “I am not surprised that a member of your family would have truck with the liars and thieves that inhabit the place. I bid you good day, Lord Ambrose!”

  Not only dismissed but insulted by a gentleman he outranked, Cornelius found himself bemused rather than affronted. It was becoming a common occurrence as all of his father’s sins were coming home to roost. He had little doubt that the cut direct would be something he would quickly become accustomed to.

  At the stable, he procured a horse, if one could call the sway-backed nag such a thing, and headed in the direction of the castle as he’d been directed. What should have taken no more than half an hour took nearly two. Not only was the horse he’d been given sway-backed, it was stubborn, disobedient, never met a blade of grass or weed it did not feel inclined to ingest. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that the stable master disliked him. As he’d spoken a grand total of ten words to the man, he wasn’t entirely certain how he’d managed to give offense, but clearly he had.

  During his longer than necessary ride, he was still thinking of Daventry and whatever he might be doing in Blackfield. To the best of his recollections, the man’s daughter had died some time ago, and Ramsleigh as well. Surely, there would be no reason for him to have dealings with the newly-named Lord Ramsleigh. Randall was the worst kind of blackguard—not the thing at all.

  As he neared the castle, Cornelius saw two gentlemen, both dark-haired and the appropriate age to be his half-brother. But it was the gentleman to the left who drew his attention. There was a portrait of his father as a younger man, before his dissipated life had taken its heavy toll on him, and that gentleman could have posed for it.

  “Dr. Nicholas Warner, I presume?” Cornelius said as he drew his mount up near theirs.

  “I am Dr. Warner,” the gentleman replied. “How may I be of service?”

  “You can help me put this animal out of its misery… I’ve seen worthier horseflesh on donkeys,” Cornelius replied. “But alas, I should introduce myself. I am Cornelius Garrett, Lord Ambrose—your half-brother.”

  *

  Nicholas’ expression remained inscrutable, more from years of practice than from effort on his part. He had not expected that his newfound family connections would come seeking him out. Recalling the letter and the mention of a settlement, it began to make more sense.

  “I’ll sign whatever documents are required to disavow the inheritance. I’ve no desire to have anything more from the man who sired me than what has already been given—the ability to support myself,” Nicholas replied.

  Lord Ambrose was silent for a moment, as if taking his measure. When the man spoke again, his tone was mild, almost apologetic. “You misunderstand, Dr. Warner… my being here is more of a coincidence than anything to do with our father’s last will and testament. Though, I daresay, you should learn the particulars of the settlement before refusing it so vehemently. I was traveling to London from our great aunt’s estate near Edinburgh when my carriage became disabled. I had thought this an opportunity to become acquainted with one another… assuming you are amenable to that.”

  Nicholas surveyed the gentleman dispassionately. There was a slight similarity in their appearance, though his own coloring was much darker. To his mind, that only made matters worse. He’d have been far happier if there had been no family resemblance at all. He resented it, he realized—resented sharing anything with the family for whom he’d been nothing but a dirty secret. “I can hardly refuse, can I?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Lord Ambrose mused. “Given the scandals that have boiled over, one right after another, following father’s demise, most people have… I can’t think of a single house in all of London where I’m truly welcome these days, including my own. So, yes, Doctor, you may certainly refuse. And given our father’s treatment of you, you would be well within your rights to do so. I would only beg your consider one thing, sir.”

  “And what is that?” Nicholas demanded.

  “That I am, thankfully, not our father.”

  Nicholas didn’t know quite what to make of the stranger before him claiming such kinship. The man was well dressed, gave every appearance of being a gentleman, and yet he had none of the haughtiness that was so typical of those of a higher class. He seemed, in fact, to be amused by all of it, rank and scandal alike. “It is not my house to welcome you to,” Nicholas responded vaguely, alleviating himself of the responsibility in that situation.

  “By all means,” Graham interjected, “Join us, please. My mother will be delighted to have someone else to fuss over and no doubt Lady Ramsleigh will be relieved as well that mother will have someone else to fuss over. She can be a bit overwhelming.”

  “Lady Ramsleigh?” Lord Ambrose queried. “I understood that she had passed some time ago.”

  “It is my understanding,” Nicholas answered sharply, “that she fled an abusive husband and he put about rumors of her death, going so far as to fake her burial in order to save face at having been abandoned for his cruelty.”

  Lord Ambrose held up a staying hand. “I meant no disrespect to the lady, Doctor. But that news does answer two questions that I have stumbled upon today. The first is why on earth, Mr. Daventry, the lady’s father, was here in Blackfield… I have just encountered him at the inn, you see. The second question is more troubling still.”

  “And what, pray tell, is this question?” The commanding tone in Blakemore’s voice brooked no argument.

  “There are certain troublemakers in the village, drunkards in the tavern mostly, that are speaking of witches, the devil, and a woman returned from the dead. While the burning of witches is a dark spot on our history, gentlemen, and is no longer sanctioned by the laws of our nation, I would not put it past certain members of our current society to engage in such brutality. It has not been so very long, after all, that our French counterparts were being paraded through the streets to be guillotined and their heads displayed on pikes,” Ambrose answered.

  “Nothing will happen to Lady Ramsleigh while she is in our care,” Graham insisted.

  “Nothing will happen to Lady Ramsleigh at all,” Nicholas corrected. “She will be well protected.”

  If either of the other men thought the vehemence of his response was inappropriate for a casual acquaintance, neither remarked upon it. Instead, Graham merely arched an eyebrow at him and then extended his invitation more
formally to Lord Ambrose, “Please join us at Castle Black… we can walk from here since I doubt your borrowed mount could survive the climb.”

  With his newly-acquired half-brother with them, the trio made their way up the hill to the gates of Castle Black. No one spoke. While the silence was not entirely companionable, it was not overly tense either. Nicholas did find himself curious at what Lord Ambrose might actually want of him, though he couldn’t imagine that he had anything of value to offer the man. And as no member of the Garrett family had ever shown the least bit of familial interest in him, he dismissed that possibility out of hand.

  As they neared the house, the butler opened the door. He looked askance at having someone else joining their ranks.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, “I was not aware that we were expecting company.”

  “That’s because we weren’t,” Graham answered evenly. “It will be no trouble to have an extra place set for dinner, I’m sure. Beatrice will instruct you in all that is required.”

  “Again, my apologies, my lord. I did not mean to imply that our guest…”

  “Lord Ambrose,” Nicholas supplied, watching the servant flounder.

  “That Lord Ambrose would not be welcome. Perhaps, I should have said ‘more’ guests. A Mr. Daventry arrived earlier to call upon Lady Ramsleigh and I fear his visit was not a pleasant one. She has taken to her bed and Lady Agatha is quite overwrought.”

  Nicholas glanced back at Lord Ambrose. “Welcome to bedlam.”

  “At least it’s interesting,” he replied, and followed them into the house.

  Chapter Eight

  The episode with her father had left Viola more shaken than she cared to admit. It had also exhausted her entirely. Her energy level had not yet returned fully though most of her injuries were, if not entirely healed, certainly beyond the point of any real concern. Of course, it was possible that her exhaustion had nothing to do with her physical state and everything to do with the soul-deep weariness that her father’s coldness and contempt of her induced.