by Angie Ray
So this was Phillip, thought Margaret. He certainly did not look violent. His face was kind, and his blue eyes gentle. “I think you are right, Aunt Letty. I don’t believe he murdered his wife. See how carefully and tenderly he holds her arm?”
“Oh, that’s not Phillip,” said Aunt Letty. “That’s Phillip’s father, the first viscount. He was something of a rake until he fell in love with Jeanne, a Frenchwoman, and married her. They were very happy.” She pointed to a portrait behind them. “There, that is Phillip.”
Everyone turned. Margaret caught her breath.
“Phillip Eglinton, second viscount Holwell.” Aunt Letty sighed worshipfully, clasping the ever-present jar to her bosom.
He was not at all handsome, thought Margaret, her spine unconsciously stiffening. In fact, he looked wickedly dissolute. Deeply hooded eyes stared cynically down a long, aquiline nose at the small group. One corner of his mouth curled in a sardonic smile, both repelling and inviting. Dark red hair, almost the same hue as the ruby ring he wore, was pulled back in a simple queue, somehow adding to his air of dissipation. And although he was dressed for hunting, in a loose-fitting shooting coat and a belt with a pouch on it, something about the way his fingers stroked the gun in his arms made her think it wasn’t game he was after.
He looked as if he deserved hanging, thought Margaret, her skin prickling with dislike.
“Isn’t he divine?” asked Aunt Letty.
“Oh, yes,” simpered Cousin Winifred, much to Margaret’s disgust. “So virile.”
Margaret felt compelled to make some remark. “Very interesting technique. Who is the artist?”
“Unfortunately, I do not know,” said Aunt Letty.
“Aunt Letty, could we please move on?” Bernard, his foot tapping impatiently, was not even looking at the portrait. Obviously he, like Margaret, thought there was nothing remarkable about Phillip.
Aunt Letty’s brows arched in surprise and she peered at Bernard’s face. “How you have changed, Bernard! You used to sit here for hours when you were a child, staring at Phillip.”
Bernard flushed. “Simply a normal interest in dead people. Er, I mean in history. Nothing unusual in that.”
“But Bernard, don’t you remember you used to hear him whispering too? Why, one night you even said--“
“Nonsense,” he growled, growing redder. “It’s late, Aunt Letty, and we’re all tired.”
“Oh dear, how thoughtless of me. You must all be longing for your beds after your journey. Come along. We will save the rest for another time.”
Margaret took one final peek at Phillip. He seemed to be staring at her, his gaze mocking and seductive all at once. Hastily she averted her eyes. She must be tired, she thought, following Aunt Letty out of the gallery.
Bernard escorted her to her room. He lingered a moment, his eyes intent on her face, but when she met his gaze, he looked away. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before hurrying down the long corridor.
Her hand on the brass doorknob, Margaret watched him until he turned the corner. With a deep sigh, she turned the knob and entered her room, only to stop abruptly, staring at the sight in front of her. She blinked her eyes a few times, but to no avail. The astonishing bed remained.
It was fashioned after the Chinese style, with a pagoda roof and yellow silk coverlet. Bedcurtains, from the same bright material, were tied back with gold tassels. Red bedposts contrasted dramatically.
Tearing her gaze away, Margaret looked at the rest of the room. To the left of the bed was a green and gold japanned dressing table with a mirror on folding hinges, while on the other side was a matching escritoire. The fireplace, on the right wall, was flanked by two windows and two red-lacquer chairs with yellow cushions. The yellow cushions were repeated on a padded settee at the foot of the bed.
Margaret had never in her life seen such a garish room. It flaunted every rule of Victorian good taste. It was too bright, too gaudy, too much for words.
She loved it.
A smile curving her lips, she moved forward to trail a finger along the smooth silk bedcover and trace the intricately carved dragon in the headboard. She could almost imagine she was in China, or some other far-off, exotic place.
Had Bernard’s aunt decorated the room? Very likely. Margaret tugged on the bell pull, her smile widening. Aunt Letty might have a few cobwebs in her attic, but Margaret liked her very much. Although hopefully the “ghost” would not “whisper” to Aunt Letty within earshot of Margaret. She would not know what to do if the old woman started carrying on a conversation with some unseen person.
Her maid came in answer to Margaret’s summons and helped her change into a nightgown. After Yvette left, Margaret sat down on the bed, bouncing lightly. The mattress was soft and inviting. She lay back with a blissful sigh.
A painting on the underside of the pagoda-roof caught her eye. The trim of the roof cast deep shadows, concealing the edges of the painting. In the center, where the light was unobstructed, she could see a Chinese man, with a long moustache, sleeping peacefully.
She wouldn’t mind following his example, she thought, her eyes closing.
She wanted to mull over the impressions she had received that evening, but the bed was very soft, a rushlight provided a comforting glow, and the thick walls shut out all noise. Sleep stole over her. Too tired to fight it, she soon fell into a deep slumber.
It was very late when something woke her. Groggily she lifted her eyelids and saw a flickering light.
Chapter Three
Suddenly, Margaret was wide awake. Her heart began to pound. The hair on her arms stood up straight as goosebumps tingled up and down her spine. The source of the light seemed to be somewhere behind her, but she was too frightened to turn and look. She lay on her side, very still, not even breathing, so as not to reveal her wakefulness. Her hearing grew more acute as she listened for a sound, any sound, that might provide a clue to the intruder’s identity.
The smell of tobacco, rich and sweet, filled her nostrils.
She kept her eyes half closed, but through her lashes, she could see the light appeared to be moving. Her shoulders tensed. She sensed something coming closer, closer, closer....
Taking a deep breath, she rolled over and croaked, “Who’s there?”
The light vanished, leaving the room in impenetrable darkness.
Margaret lay motionless again. Her eyes were wide open, staring into the dark, trying to see. She could hear nothing except the loud thumping of her heart. An interminable length of time passed, but nothing happened. Everything was perfectly still.
Gradually, she became aware that the rushlight had gone out, and the room was freezing cold. Reaching down, she pulled up the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and huddled under the covers, shivering.
She closed her eyes, but all of her senses remained extraordinarily heightened. She heard a board creak. Her eyes flew open, the small noise pounding against her eardrums like a cannonball, but the room was dark. She shut her eyes again.
It was a long time before she finally fell asleep.
*****
In the clear light of morning, Margaret told herself it had been a dream. Heaven knew, listening to Aunt Letty ramble on about ghosts was enough to give anyone nightmares. And that dinner! Four courses of potatoes would cause indigestion in any person and disturb their sleep. The idea that someone had been in her room was absurd.
“Absolutely absurd,” she murmured to herself as she went down to breakfast. Bernard looked up from the newspaper when she entered the morning room.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Did you come to my room last night?” she blurted out.
“Miss Westbourne!” He thrust the newspaper aside, his eyes wide with shock. “Certainly not!”
She bit her lip. Her question had not been worded very well. “I beg your pardon, Lord Barnett. I thought I heard something last night, and I thought perhaps Aunt Letty was ill.” A lame excuse, but it was the best she could come up wit
h at the moment. She turned to fill her plate from the sideboard. Her stomach churned a little as fried potatoes and leftover potato pudding met her gaze. She opted for bread and butter.
“Aunt Letty is fine,” said Bernard. “Even if she weren’t, I would have sent your maid to inform you.”
“Of course,” Margaret murmured, taking her seat. “Please forgive my thoughtless question.”
Picking up his knife and fork, Bernard began to dice a leftover piece of potato on his plate. “I would never jeopardize your reputation by doing something so reprehensible as entering your bedchamber. I want no breath of scandal to attach to your name.”
She gripped the butter knife tightly for a moment. Then, she buttered her bread and calmly bit into it. His high moral standards were very...admirable, she told herself determinedly. Certainly he could not respect a woman who allowed him into her room when they were not married. Why, he would in all probability break off their engagement if she showed such loose morals as to allow him in. That was the way of the world, and certainly she agreed with him.
“I believe, as do you, in the strict observance of society’s rules.” A deep flush suffusing his face, he repeated, “I would never do anything so reprehensible as entering a lady’s bedchamber.”
Margaret opened her mouth to ask what he planned to do when they were married, then changed her mind and took a bite of bread and butter instead. She did not want to cause him an apoplexy, she thought as she chewed a bit more fiercely than usual.
After demolishing the potato, Bernard pulled out his watch and started playing with the catch. Margaret found herself chewing in time to the click, snap, and had to consciously stop herself. He stared at the wall, not speaking until she finished her tea.
He cleared his throat. “If you are done, would you like to see the gardens?”
She stifled the impulse to say no. She needed some fresh air--maybe it would clear away the lingering cobwebs in her brain.
The parterre garden was a pleasant place. Underfoot, wild thyme grew between paving stones, and as they walked, some of the plants were crushed, releasing a tangy fragrance. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the energizing scent. Almost, she could forget about potatoes and strange lights and marriage....
Four paths led to a sundial in the garden’s center. Margaret paused to look at it. The small lines in heavy cast metal did not make any sense to her. She could not tell what hour it was. “How long did you live here?”
“Five years. When my mother died, my father had no idea what to do with an infant, so he sent me to Aunt Letty. Until I started school. After that, as you know, I spent summers at Barnett Manor.”
Margaret nodded absently, remembering that first time she had found him sitting forlornly at the border of their two properties. She had been only eight, but even at that age she had thought he seemed lost and lonely. There were few children in the area, none at all that the old viscount had approved of his only son playing with. Even Margaret, with her father’s merchant background, had not been welcomed by the snobbish Lord Barnett.
It wasn’t until her grandmother died, leaving Margaret a tidy fortune, that the old Lord Barnett had suddenly changed his mind. He had even gone so far as to approach her father about arranging a match between the two families. Her father had been ecstatic.
“I hope you weren’t frightened by Aunt Letty’s talk of ghosts.”
“Certainly not.” Margaret firmly pushed aside the memory of last night. That had been a dream. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I didn’t mean to question your good sense,” Bernard assured her hastily. “I have no doubts about that.”
“Thank you.” She tried to squash the feeling that she had just been insulted. “Is she your father’s aunt?”
“Actually, she is my great-grandmother’s cousin.”
“Good heavens.”
“Yes, she is quite old. Ninety-one, in fact.” He paused for a long moment.
“Miss Westbourne....” Bernard coughed, and Margaret turned toward him, but he was looking down at the sundial. “Miss Westbourne, I think perhaps it would be acceptable...it would not be improper...for us to call each other by our Christian names. Only when we are alone, naturally.”
Margaret was glad to comply. Privately, she considered the dropping of formality long overdue. In spite of everything that had happened, she still thought of him as Bernard, and using the title was irksome. Besides, ‘Lord Barnett’ always made her think of his father. “If you wish, Bernard.”
He frowned when she immediately called him by his first name. Now what? she wondered. He seemed uncomfortable, as if he thought she had been forward.
Again, she felt a twinge of anger. What did he want from her?
“Oh, there is Jenkins, Aunt Letty’s gardener. I wonder if Aunt Letty ever remembered to tell him about the daffodil bulbs? Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to remind him to talk to her. Would you excuse me for a minute?”
“Certainly, Bernard.” It would give her a chance to control her temper. “I will go on ahead.”
He still hadn’t caught up with her by the time she reached the front door with its glaring gargoyles. Probably he didn’t want to, Margaret thought. Making a face at the stone beasts, she entered the castle and started up the stairs, only to be stopped by Gibbons.
“Miss Chetwynd would like to see you in the parlor,” he said. “She has a guest.”
“Oh, I must change, then.”
“No, there is no need. She wants to see you right away.”
Margaret hesitated, but the butler’s voice was strangely insistent. Reluctantly, she walked towards the parlor. As she approached she could hear voices within.
“I cannot wait much longer,” an unpleasant voice said.
“Please, Mortimer, I’m sure my luck will turn soon.”
Hearing Aunt Letty’s quavering tones, Margaret stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
“I just need a little more time. I will come next week, and--“
Feeling uncomfortable at her inadvertent eavesdropping, Margaret pushed the door open. Aunt Letty and the man she had called Mortimer both turned, their faces startled. Aunt Letty was clutching her jar to her chest, as though it were a talisman that could ward off evil.
Margaret disliked Mortimer on sight. He had oily-looking blond hair and a thin moustache on his upper lip. He wore rings on all his fingers on both hands, including one large ruby in an ornate gold setting. When he spoke, his voice was as oily as his hair.
“Well, well, and who might you be?” he leered.
Margaret stiffened at his rudeness, and Aunt Letty hastily made the introductions. “Miss Westbourne, may I present Lord Mortimer, a neighbor of mine. Mortimer, this is Miss Margaret Westbourne, my nephew’s fiancee.”
Mortimer paused in the act of bowing over Margaret’s hand. A look of astonishment passed over his face. “Your nephew? Do you mean Barnett?” When Aunt Letty nodded, he burst into loud laughter.
Her distaste increasing by the second, Margaret pulled her hand away.
“Ah, forgive me, Miss Westbourne,” he said, wiping his eyes. “It’s only that Barnett and I are old friends.”
“Indeed?” Margaret’s frozen reply was echoed by another voice. Turning, she saw Bernard standing in the doorway, a look of dislike hardening his usually bland expression.
“Bernie!” Mortimer strode forward to grasp Bernard’s hand. “Congratulations, old boy. I hope you didn’t trip over your feet when you proposed.”
Bernard’s frown deepened and Mortimer laughed maliciously. “Bernie’s always been the clumsiest fellow,” he said to Margaret.
“I hate to rush you on your way,” Bernard said coldly. “But we are leaving for church soon.”
Mortimer’s eyes narrowed, but his thin lips did not lose their smile. “I will go then. We will have to talk over old times another day. Perhaps next week. Your aunt was just inviting me to dinner Monday evening, weren’t you, Letty?” His cold eyes bore into Aunt L
etty.
“Yes, of course,” stammered the old woman.
“Until Monday, then. Goodday to you all. Miss Westbourne, it’s been a true pleasure.” His loud laughter echoed through the room as he departed.
Bernard’s neck was stiff as he glared after Mortimer. “Aunt Letty, how could you invite that knave here?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
“Now, Bernard.” Nervously, Aunt Letty reached up to tug a curl on her wig. “He is our nearest neighbor. And it’s about time I returned his hospitality. I frequently go to the little parties he has every month.”
Bernard stared at her. “How can you, of all people, associate with that blackguard?”
“Oh, Bernard, don’t be angry with me!” Large tears welled up in Aunt Letty’s eyes and her face crumpled. “It’s only that there’s not much to do around here, especially at my age, and Mortimer does have the most amusing parties. Everyone goes, and oh, I do so love a good game of cards.”
“Here now, don’t cry, Aunt Letty.” Hastily, Bernard pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at her. “Naturally you may invite whoever you like here. It is your house after all.”
“Oh thank you, Bernard.” Aunt Letty’s tears dried up magically. “I won’t ask him here again while you’re visiting. Now, I must go change for church.”
“Wait,” Margaret said. “Didn’t you want to see me?”
Aunt Letty frowned. “I don’t think so, dear.”
“But Gibbons said....” Margaret’s voice drifted off as she realized what had happened.
Aunt Letty appeared to understand perfectly also. “Dear Gibbons, he is like a mother hen. So protective. He disapproves of Mortimer, you see.”
Bernard frowned after Aunt Letty. Then, with an abrupt bow to Margaret, he left the room also, still frowning.
*****
At dinner, Margaret was dismayed to see course after course of potatoes again. Yet even that torture paled in comparison to listening to Cousin Winifred read aloud afterwards.
She had chosen The Ghost of Trevellyan Castle. With moans and squeaks and dramatic voices that would have done an actress proud, she related the adventures of poor Belinda and the evil spirit haunting her ancestral home.