Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  Margaret looked away from her mother and over at the men, who stood some distance away. She could hear her father talking about tearing down fences and consolidating flocks.

  “What a great day it will be, when the two estates are one,” boomed Mr. Westbourne. “I only wish your father could be here today.”

  Her fiance looked down at his glass. “As do I, sir.”

  “When is the wedding to be?” Mrs. Westbourne inquired, returning from the sideboard.

  “I thought perhaps October,” said Bernard.

  “Oh no,” Margaret said involuntarily. All eyes turned to her and she swallowed hard.

  “That’s barely two months away,” she stammered. “Not nearly enough time for all the preparations. There is so much to be done. The wedding dress, the trousseau....” Her voice died away.

  “Margaret’s right,” Mrs. Westbourne said. “We don’t want this to be a paltry affair. Lady Creevy will not be able to sneer at the smallest detail. November will be much better.”

  It was a small reprieve, but a reprieve nonetheless.

  “Hmmm,” grumbled Mr. Westbourne. “I don’t see what takes almost three months to prepare.” He looked suspiciously at his daughter. “But I suppose if that’s what you want, we can wait.”

  In her relief, Margaret smiled radiantly. Mr. Westbourne blinked a little, then returned the smile, his whole face softening perceptibly. “Whatever you want, Meggy, that’s fine with me. You’re a good girl.” He hugged her again, and this time, Margaret hugged him back, clinging to him for a long moment.

  Bernard coughed, and spoke hesitantly. “If I might make a request? I am sure my aunt, Miss Leticia Chetwynd, would like to meet my future wife. Would it be possible for Miss Westbourne to come with me to visit her? My sister and her husband will be there also.”

  Margaret’s heart sank. The idea of visiting with Bernard and a houseful of his relatives was not appealing.

  “Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Westbourne frowned. “I seem to recall your father mentioning her. Didn’t you live with her for a while when you were a boy?”

  “After my mother died, until I was ten,” said Bernard. “In later years, my father and she did not get along. She is a trifle...eccentric. Fortunately, they did not have to see each other very often since she lives in Durham.”

  “Durham? Where is that?” Geography was not Mrs. Westbourne’s long suit.

  “It’s north of Yorkshire, Mrs. Westbourne.”

  “North of Yorkshire!” Her tone was as shocked as if Bernard had said St. Petersburg. “Heavens, that is quite a distance. Margaret will have to have a chaperone.” She seemed to wilt a little. “I wish that I could accompany her, but my health is so delicate.”

  Mr. Westbourne patted her hand. “My dear, you mustn’t think of taking such an arduous journey.”

  “I fear you are right, Mr. Westbourne,” said his dutiful wife. “Perhaps Cousin Winifred could accompany her.”

  “She won’t want to leave her garden,” Margaret predicted hopefully.

  “Nonsense. Once you’re there, Miss Chetwynd will be sufficient chaperone and Cousin Winifred may return.”

  “I would like to leave in one week, if possible,” said Bernard.

  “I will send a message to Cousin Winifred immediately. Excuse me, please.” Mrs. Westbourne left to write her letter and Bernard picked up his gloves and hat.

  “I will make the preparations then.” He bowed stiffly to Margaret. “Good day, Miss Westbourne. Until next week.” With a nod to her father, he strode hurriedly from the room.

  Mr. Westbourne smiled beatifically after him. “My little Margaret--engaged!” he said joyfully.

  *****

  Cousin Winifred spent much of the journey complaining about the noisy, smelly train, and her crotchets increased when they arrived in Durham and found no carriage waiting. Standing in the heat while Lord Barnett hired a vehicle caused the bunion on her big toe to ache and her faded blonde curls to droop.

  When she first saw Durnock Castle, however, Cousin Winifred was considerably cheered. “How romantic!” she exclaimed, sticking her head out the window. “Your aunt is very fortunate to live in such a place, Lord Barnett.”

  The central rectangular building stood between two eight-sided towers, all built of grey stone, with slit-like windows. In front, the huge arch where carriages had once passed had been completely walled in except for the doorway. There were even two gargoyles on either side of the arch to glare at arriving guests. As Margaret climbed down from the carriage and walked up the steps, the sense of oppression which had plagued her all week lightened.

  Cousin Winifred is right, she thought. It is romantic.

  The massive oak door opened with a shrill creak and a solemn-faced butler bowed them into the castle. After the heat outside, the huge flagstoned hall felt pleasantly cool to Margaret. In the dim light, she noticed a faded red and gold banner hanging on one wall and an old suit of armor lurking in a dark corner under the staircase.

  “Where is my aunt, Gibbons?” Bernard asked, handing his gloves and hat to the butler.

  “In the West Parlor, my lord. Shall I announce you?”

  “No, we will go ahead. Thank you, Gibbons.”

  They trekked across the hall to a door, which Bernard opened, revealing an eight-sided room. On a delicate rosewood sofa sat a tiny old woman, wearing an enormous grey wig. She looked up with a startled expression. Seeing the small group standing in the doorway, she rose to her feet, a jar clutched to her bony chest.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked in a quavering voice.

  “Aunt Letty, it is I, Bernard,” said Bernard, moving forward to kiss her cheek.

  “Bernard?” She peered nearsightedly at his face. “Is it truly you? What are you doing here?”

  “I brought Miss Westbourne to meet you.” He took the jar from her unresisting grasp and placed it on an ivory-inlaid table. “The lady I am going to marry.”

  “Marry!”

  “Yes. Remember I wrote you a letter?”

  “Oh. Oh yes. It must have slipped my mind. My dear girl, how wonderful to meet you.” With surprising grace, the old woman walked over and embraced Cousin Winifred. Bernard pulled her away and redirected her to Margaret.

  “My dear girl,” she said again, unfazed. She hugged Margaret warmly, causing her wig to slip a little to one side.

  Margaret, feeling sharp, brittle bones, hugged her back gently.

  “I am so happy for you and Bernard.” The old woman smiled up at Margaret, a thousand wrinkles splaying out over her face.

  She must be ninety years old, at least, Margaret thought. “Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.”

  “No, no. You must call me Aunt Letty. And I shall call you...what is your first name, dear?”

  “Margaret,” Bernard supplied.

  “Margaret,” repeated Aunt Letty, nodding and smiling happily. “And who is this other lady?”

  “This is my cousin, Miss Winifred Driscoll,” said Margaret, a trifle distractedly. She had noticed a large hole in Aunt Letty’s wig. It looked as though moths, or perhaps mice had feasted upon it.

  “Delighted, Miss Driscoll,” said Aunt Letty. “But come, sit down, please.” She sat back down on the sofa, next to the little table where the jar was. There were only two hoop-backed chairs in the room, so Margaret sat down next to Aunt Letty on the sofa.

  The butler came in with a tea tray and Aunt Letty asked Margaret to pour. “My hands are not so steady as they were,” she explained.

  “Certainly,” Margaret replied, glad for something to occupy herself.

  “What a surprise this is,” said Aunt Letty, accepting her cup with a hand that shook slightly. “Bernard, you should have told me you were going to ask Margaret to marry you.”

  “I wrote you,” he said again.

  “Did you? Never mind. My dear, let me look at you.” Aunt Letty leaned over closer to Margaret, almost spilling tea in her lap. Margaret smiled uncertainly. “Ah, yes, how p
retty you are. Bernard you didn’t tell me how pretty she is.” She looked accusingly at Bernard. He hunched his shoulders and didn’t reply. With a shake of her head, Aunt Letty lifted Margaret’s hand and patted it with skeletal fingers. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain just because Bernard omitted a few details. Actually, he has told me so much about you, I feel as though I know you.”

  Her cup halfway to her lips, Margaret paused, unconsciously straightening her spine. What exactly had Bernard told his elderly aunt? The tale of Margaret’s disgrace?

  But Aunt Letty’s face was warm and open--not the expression of someone about to pronounce judgment. Margaret relaxed slightly.

  “Aunt Letty--“ Bernard clanked his cup down, causing some of the liquid to slosh over the edge. “Could we go up to our rooms? We must change for dinner.”

  “Oh, are you staying?” the old woman asked. Then she laughed. “Of course you are, how silly of me.” She rang the bell and the butler appeared.

  “Gibbons, do you think you could prepare three rooms?”

  “The housekeeper is already attending to it, Miss Chetwynd. They should be ready in a few more minutes.”

  “Thank you, Gibbons. Let’s see, am I forgetting anything else?”

  “Shall I inform Cook there will be three more for dinner?”

  “Oh yes, of course. How clever of you, Gibbons.” Aunt Letty stared fondly after the butler’s departing figure. “I don’t know what I would do without Gibbons. He is such a dear man.” She picked up a biscuit and popped it into her mouth. “Tell me, Miss Driscoll, was your journey comfortable?”

  “It was very pleasant,” replied Cousin Winifred. With considerable relish, she went on to list in detail all the discomforts she had suffered. Margaret’s attention wandered.

  The room was an odd mismatch of Baroque, Georgian and Regency styles. There was little in the way of ornamentation; no knickknacks on the gilded tables, or porcelain displayed on the blue- and cream-striped wallpaper. There were only the tea things and Aunt Letty’s jar--which could not be considered decoration, Margaret decided. She peered at the jar, trying to identify the object inside. It looked like a lumpy ball of dirty linen.

  “Cecilia and Geoffrey and Jeremy haven’t arrived yet?” Bernard asked. “I thought they were due last week.”

  “They were delayed, I believe,” said Aunt Letty. “I am certain they will be here any day now.”

  “Who is Jeremy?” Margaret asked.

  “Jeremy is my nephew.”

  Margaret stared at her fiance in amazement. “I didn’t know you had a nephew.”

  Bernard shrugged.

  She supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised, Margaret thought. After all, their families had barely spoken in the last eight years. It just seemed strange that Bernard had become an uncle and she hadn’t known.

  “You naughty boy, Bernard,” said Aunt Letty. “Imagine not telling your fiancee about your nephew. Never mind, dear,” she said to Margaret. “You will meet Jeremy soon. And you can meet the rest of the family after dinner.”

  Margaret stared at Bernard. He had pulled out his watch and was fiddling with the catch. Exactly how many unknown relatives did he have? “The rest of the family?”

  “Of course! Didn’t Bernard even tell you about Phillip?”

  “Aunt Letty....” Click, snap.

  “Oh hush, Bernard. I can’t believe you haven’t told this dear child about my uncle Phillip.”

  “Your uncle?” Margaret tried to hide her amazement. Evidently longevity was a family trait.

  “Phillip Eglinton is no relation of ours.” Click, snap. “Merely, he was married to Aunt Letty’s sister.”

  “My sister Mary. She was his first wife. I only called him uncle because he was so much older than I,” explained Aunt Letty. “And we were very close. He left me this house.”

  Margaret could not make sense of this strange statement. “I don’t understand. If he left you this house, then isn’t he....”

  “Dead? Oh yes. My goodness, for years and years.” Aunt Letty smiled fondly at Margaret’s confused face.

  “He is a ghost now,” she said blithely.

  Chapter Two

  Margaret set down her cup. It was a normal-looking cup she noticed, with an attractive pattern of pink roses. Although now that she looked closely, she could see a faint crack by the handle. “A ghost?” she asked.

  “A ghost!” exclaimed Cousin Winifred, clasping her hands together. “How terribly exciting!”

  “Now, Aunt Letty, you know you’ve never actually seen him,” Bernard said weakly.

  “No, but I often feel his presence, and sometimes he whispers to me--“

  Gibbons entered at that moment, cutting Aunt Letty off in mid-sentence. “Dinner is almost ready, Miss Chetwynd.”

  Bernard made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief and returned his watch to his pocket.

  “However,” the butler continued, “the carriage with the ladies’ luggage has not arrived.”

  “Oh, dear. Margaret, Miss Driscoll, shall I put dinner back or would you prefer to dine now?”

  Margaret stomach rumbled, evidence of how long it had been since luncheon. “I wouldn’t want your dinner to be spoiled,” she said politely. “Perhaps if we could wash up a bit?”

  Gibbons escorted Margaret and Miss Driscoll to a small anteroom and provided a basin of water. As the two women washed their hands and faces, Cousin Winifred remarked, “This seems like a very pleasant place. How fortunate your mother convinced me it was my duty to come! Do you think Miss Chetwynd will tell us more about the ghost at dinner?”

  “Really, Cousin Winifred, the ghost is only an elderly woman’s fancy.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” Looking disappointed, she dried her hands. Then she brightened and said, “I don’t know, Margaret. The moment I saw the castle, I felt a sense of foreboding. Exactly like Drusilla in The Specter of the Black Forest. Little shivers went up and down my spine--“

  “Probably just a breeze,” Margaret interrupted. “Come, the others will be waiting.”

  After gathering in the parlor, everyone proceeded to the dining room. Aunt Letty sat down at the head of a long refectory table and set the jar next to her plate, patting it fondly. After everyone else was seated, she nodded to the butler, causing her wig to slip sideways a bit. Nonchalantly, she raised a hand and straightened it.

  The butler brought in the first course. Margaret could smell the enticing aroma of potato leek soup. She inhaled deeply, her mouth starting to water. Heavens, she was hungry! She scooped up a spoonful of the creamy soup and sighed with pleasure as it came into contact with her tongue.

  “The weather is very pleasant,” remarked Bernard. His voice echoed a bit in the huge oak-panelled room.

  “I don’t remember ever having such a hot summer,” said Aunt Letty. “I keep meaning to tell Jenkins to plant some daffodils. I do hope the heat doesn’t bother you, Miss Driscoll. Although the house never truly gets warm. Which is perhaps fortunate since I think spirits don’t like warm places.”

  Bernard choked a little on his soup. Margaret, seeing him flush, realized how embarrassed he must be. Although Aunt Letty was sweet, he must feel her wandering wits reflected poorly on him. Margaret felt a twinge of unladylike glee before politely feigning deafness while she finished the rest of her soup.

  “How very odd,” said Cousin Winifred. “I wonder why they don’t like warm places?”

  “Perhaps it reminds them of their probable destination,” said Aunt Letty.

  Bernard’s face looked like a ripe tomato. “Aunt Letty--“

  “Not that Phillip needs to worry,” the old woman continued, oblivious. She nodded at a footman to take the soup bowls away. “His spirit roams within these walls, unable to rest in peace because of the terrible injustice done him.”

  “Oh, the poor man,” said Cousin Winifred, as the butler brought in the second course. “An injustice, you say?”

  The second course w
as frilled potatoes. Still trying to ignore the old woman’s eccentric conversation, Margaret took a helping.

  Aunt Letty heaped them on her plate. “Yes. He was accused of murdering his wife. His second wife, that is. Not my sister.”

  “How awful!” smiled Cousin Winifred.

  “Yes. I’m sure the accusation was false. Dear Phillip would never have done such a thing.”

  Cousin Winifred took a bite of potatoes. “I would think a jury would agree with you, Miss Chetwynd.”

  “No, they didn’t. Phillip was hanged. Over seventy-eight years ago.”

  “Aunt Letty, why don’t you tell us what has been happening in the village,” Bernard said, a trifle desperately. He had not touched his potatoes, Margaret noticed.

  Aunt Letty was agreeable to this suggestion, and while she cheerfully recited the births and deaths that had occurred in the last several months, the butler brought in the next course. Roasted potatoes.

  “Gibbons, bring in the dessert, also,” ordered Aunt Letty.

  The potato pudding arrived forthwith.

  The meal was quickly finished, everyone except Aunt Letty picking at the last two dishes. When Aunt Letty had taken her last bite of potato pudding, she sighed blissfully, and said to the butler, “What a delicious dinner. Gibbons, be sure to tell Cook.”

  “Yes, Miss Chetwynd,” he said impassively.

  “Now, if everyone is done, it’s time for Margaret to meet my family. Especially Phillip.” Aunt Letty stood and picked up her jar. “Miss Driscoll, you are welcome to come if you like.”

  “I think I will forgo the port and join you,” said Bernard, rising also.

  Aunt Letty herded them all along to the picture gallery, much to Margaret’s relief. She had half-expected Aunt Letty would take them to the family graveyard. The gallery was a long, narrow hall lined with full-length portraits. Immediately in front of them, a rather dashing-looking gentleman wearing a powdered wig stood next to a pretty, dark-haired woman with a delicate face and smiling eyes.