“Will you tell Papa?” Amelia asked. “He might want to challenge him to a duel.”
“No,” Alice said, rising to her feet. “I’ll deal with Mr. Scrimgeour myself.”
“No, Mama!” Amelia cried, horror in her voice. “You cannot! I promised Papa I’d take care of you.”
“And you have, my love,” Alice said. “Now, the best thing you can do for me is to take care of Twinkle and Monty while I go and teach that man a lesson or two on human decency. See how poor Twinkle is shivering? She’s had a fright, and I’m sure she’s in need of a brave little girl to make her feel safe. Can you do that for me?”
Amelia stopped sobbing and nodded.
“Georgia, my dear,” Alice said, turning to Amelia’s friend who, by now, had regained her composure after uttering such a profanity. “Perhaps you could ask Mrs. Bascomb to make some hot chocolate for you both.”
With the two girls occupied in their tasks, thereby diverting them from the fright they’d had, Alice strode out into the hallway, wrapping her cloak around her, and called for the housekeeper to fetch a lantern.
If Mr. Scrimgeour thought he could intimidate women and girls, he was in for a rude awakening.
Chapter Five
Edward sighed with relief. The wind had abated and the voices which had swirled round in the air outside the house had dissipated into the air. He reached for the decanter.
Almost empty. But it would suffice. A glass, or two, might dull his senses enough that he’d not have to taste whatever concoction Mrs. Bramwell had seen fit to deposit in the kitchen for his supper. The damned woman had plagued him, yet again, about giving her a permanent position. But it was a waste of money for just one man who cared little about what he ate, and had no intention of entertaining. And she wasn’t offering out of the kindness of her heart. No—she wanted to squeeze a few more shillings out of him each week.
Most likely, out of spite, she ensured her pies contained as little meat and as much gristle as possible. Then there was last week’s offering—some godforsaken fish pie where the fishes’ heads poked out of the pastry, and stared at him reproachfully, their milky-white eyes, though unseeing, still laden with accusation. He shivered and drained the glass. That damned pie had given him nightmares for two days.
As he poured a second glass, he heard a hammering on the door.
Why couldn’t these bloody people leave him alone? Wasn’t that what “keep out” signs were for?
He grimaced and poured another glass. Let their belligerence be rewarded with a chill. The air had turned cold again, and most likely there would be a snowstorm later. At least, that’s what Mrs. Bramwell had muttered, and Edward suspected that if ever there was a witch residing in this part of Cornwall, it was that old crone.
The hammering continued, followed by shouting.
Curse them! Just like those bloody children, coming to poke fun at the Beast of Boscarne. That’s what they called him in the village.
Well, if they wanted a beast, he’d give them one. He slammed the glass on the table and marched down the stairs.
A voice called out from outside.
“Open up, God damn you! I know you’re in there!”
A woman! That was all he needed.
He grasped the door handle and wrenched the door open, then froze.
Isabella!
Standing in the doorway was his wife’s ghost.
Her skin was deathly white, her eyes dark with reproach, as they had been the day she’d died in his arms, cursing him for bringing about her death.
Her body was swollen with child, mocking him for his loss.
“Why have you come?” he cried. His heart shuddered in his chest and his legs threatened to crumple beneath him, as he staggered back.
“Why the devil do you think?” she shouted, anger flashing in her eyes. “Do you think the murder of innocents deserves to go unpunished?”
He raised his arm to shield himself from her fury, and she flinched. “Would you strike a pregnant woman?” she cried. “What manner of beast are you!”
“No!” he cried. “Isabella, I…”
“Who the devil is Isabella?” The ghost stepped forward and raised a lantern, illuminating her face.
No, not a ghost.
And not Isabella.
She had the same fair hair and delicate features, but the eyes, which looked at him with such fury, were a pale blue, not brown.
He swallowed his fear, his heart thumping in his chest.
“Who the devil are you to accuse me of murder?” he asked.
“You threatened my daughter and her friend, did you not?” the woman asked, “as well as their dog.”
“Those village urchins?”
“They were not urchins,” she said sharply. She straightened her body, as if to appear taller, despite the fact that he towered over her diminutive frame. She had courage which commanded respect. Though he suspected she was out for his blood, not his respect.
“I’m Alice Trelawney, from Pengarron,” she said, “and you have terrorized my daughter.”
“Then she shouldn’t have trespassed on my estate,” he growled.
“She was looking for her dog! Is that a crime?”
“A man should be able to live his life in peace, if he wishes it,” he said. “Protecting one’s property is not a crime, either.”
“And that justifies terrorizing two innocent children with a gun?”
“I don’t carry a gun,” he replied. “I may have warded them off with my cane…”
“You threatened to strangle my daughter’s dog—a harmless little creature that did nothing more than wander onto the land of an ogre. What manner of man treats innocents so abominably—and resorts to the language of the gutter?”
He shook his head. He may have used one or two salty words this afternoon, but they were nothing compared to the taunts he endured from the villagers.
Yet the woman standing in his hallway was clearly a woman of breeding. And despite the spark of fear in her eyes, she had been driven by the urge to protect her daughter. Was that not evidence of character? To face an enemy stronger than yourself in defense of an innocent?
And he was the enemy. He was everyone’s enemy. A man who’d killed his wife and unborn child through neglect, and who was plagued by her ghost almost every night.
“Perhaps I made a mistake regarding your daughter,” he said.
“You’ve done more than that,” she replied. “You may think it makes you a man to threaten children, but it doesn’t. It makes you a coward. But I warn you, sir, you’re not the only one capable of making threats.”
“Do your worst, madam,” he said. “But I’d thank you to tell your daughter not to come near here again. I do not welcome visitors.”
“And I’ll thank you to leave her alone,” she replied. “If I hear that you have said so much as a cross word to her again, so help me God, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then I’ll take my leave,” she said. “I shan’t wish you good day. You are not deserving of such consideration. If I were to use the same profanities which you see fit to utter in front of children, I’d say that I hope you rot in hell.”
With that, she turned her back on him and strode out of the house and retreated down the drive, the lamp swinging from side to side in the dark with her determined gait. Only when it had disappeared, did he close the door.
He’d heard of Mr. Trelawney, of course. Renowned businessman, born and bred in Cornwall, loved by the locals. And the man’s wife—equally loved for her kind and gentle nature. Mrs. Bramwell often raved about them.
And, in seeing her fierce little face and iron will, driven by her defense of a loved one, he could see why she was so beloved. Anger had filled her expression, but he’d noticed kindness, too.
In happier times, he might have sought out her friendship, and that of her husband. But he knew that, as soon as she knew what
he’d done, as soon as the gossips told her his story, she would spurn him like everyone else.
He longed to seek refuge in the kindness of her eyes, but it was better to remain alone.
Chapter Six
Alice exchanged smiles with her husband as two footmen placed the pie on the table in front of him. Mrs. Bascomb had outdone herself. Twenty pilchards stared up toward the ceiling, poking through the pastry topping. Amelia, who had cited star-gazy pie as one of her favorites, clapped her hands in delight. Georgia, who had yet to lose a child’s adventurousness when it came to trying new things, smiled in anticipation. But a ripple of unease threaded through the remainder of their guests.
Ross picked up a knife and spoon. “Shall I serve?” he asked. He addressed Jeanette. “Duchess—would you like one fish or two?”
“Is none an option?” the man to Jeanette’s right muttered. She swatted him with her hand.
“Henry!” She scolded the duke as if he were her footman, not her husband. “I’m sure it tastes delicious,” she said.
“It’ll taste better than it looks,” Frederica added.
Stiles took a sip of his wine. “It can hardly taste worse, Frederica, my love.”
“Hawthorne!” Frederica exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Alice,” she said. “I think your male guests have left their manners in London.”
“On the contrary, I assure you,” Stiles said. “But I’m the type of man who prefers his food not to look him in the eye while he’s eating it.”
“You can always cut off their heads, Papa,” Georgia said.
“Are you going to try some, Georgia, dear?” Alice asked.
“Of course!” the little girl said. “It smells delicious.”
“Then you shall be served first,” Ross said. He scooped a portion onto a plate and handed it to Georgia.
“Duchess?” he asked.
“Yes please, I’ll have one fish,” Jeanette replied. She threw her husband a stern look. “Henry will have two.”
“Is there a reason why the heads are there?” the duke asked, “other than to discompose the diners.”
“It’s because of the legend!” Amelia said, brightly. “It’s to prove that there are fish inside the pie.”
“But we’ll know that, once we start eating,” Stiles said, arching an eyebrow at the plate Ross handed to him. “I must say, my fish looks most aggrieved. It reminds me of a man I sent down for poaching. Though, of course,” he added, winking at Amelia, “I didn’t sentence him to being baked in a pie.”
Amelia giggled. “The pie is a tradition here, to honor a fisherman who braved a storm when everybody else was too afraid. He brought back a huge catch of fish to feed everyone, so they wouldn’t starve.”
“Is that a true story, Amelia?” Jeanette asked.
“Yes, it is,” Amelia said. “It happened over two hundred years ago. Mrs. Bascomb told me all about it.”
Ross addressed Jeanette’s sister. “Miss Susan, one fish or two?”
“I’ll have two,” Miss Claybone said. “I always find I like things which the rest of the world doesn’t.”
“Then you’d get on famously with our neighbor, Mr. Scrimgeour!” Ross laughed.
“Papa, I…” Amelia began, but Alice shot her a warning look. She’d sworn Amelia to secrecy about the incident that afternoon, and had no wish to escalate the matter by telling Ross. She’d dealt with Mr. Scrimgeour, and it was unlikely that he’d threaten Amelia again.
She knew she ought to tell Ross what had happened, but something about their neighbor had prevented her. He’d had a haunted look in his eyes which spoke of some deeply-rooted despair. The look of shock on his face when he’d opened his door had torn her heart in two.
Who was Isabella, the woman he’d mistaken Alice for? And what had happened to her?
Alice knew pain when she saw it, and she’d seen it in Mr. Scrimgeour’s eyes—a crippling, heart-wrenching agony. In the years before she’d found happiness with Ross, she had seen that expression every time she looked in the mirror.
“I think the less we say about Mr. Scrimgeour, the better,” Alice said, glancing at Amelia and Georgia. “He’s an unpleasant sort of man, and not worth our trouble.”
Miss Claybone leaned forward. “He sounds intriguing,” she said. “What do you know of him?”
“Very little,” Ross replied. “He keeps himself to himself. But young Mary, here, might know more,” he gestured to the maidservant—a girl barely out of childhood—who’d brought in the potatoes. “Your grandmother cooks for Mr. Scrimgeour, does she not?”
“That’s right, Mr. Trelawney, sir,” the maid said.
“Is he a good employer?”
Mary blushed. “He pays grandma right enough, but he counts every penny as if it were his last. ‘Rotten old miser,’ grandma calls him, begging your pardon, sir.”
“And is he a good sort of man, Mary?” Miss Claybone asked.
“Not at all, miss,” Mary replied. “He’s called the Beast of Boscarne in the village. His wife died four years back. They say he murdered her, and that her ghost inhabits Boscarne House. Grandma says it’s nonsense, and that Mrs. Scrimgeour died of childbed fever, but some say he strangled her while she lay in the bed and he then ate the child. Grandma’s the only one brave enough to venture there. Save some of the local young ’uns who go there for a dare, to see if they’d be eaten up, too. I went there once, even though my brother Billy said I’d get all eaten up, and I heard this strange wailing, just as if the ghost of…”
“That’s enough, Mary!” Alice said sharply. Amelia and Georgia were focused on Mary, their mouths open in wonder at her tale. “Please refrain from gossiping about your betters.”
“Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Mary bobbed a curtsey, then exited the dining room.
“You must forgive Mary,” Alice said. “She’s a good-natured girl, but has rather a loose tongue.”
“But you must admit that gossip is often founded on truth,” Stiles said.
“I trust you don’t adopt that principle when presiding over one of your hearings,” Miss Claybone said sharply. “A magistrate must display impartiality.”
“True, but he must also ascertain the truth as presented to him. An advocate will always be biased in favor of the man he champions. The skilled magistrate must therefore glean just as much from what is not said in court, as he does from what is presented before him.”
“And does he place weight on gossip borne of malice, Lord Stiles?”
Jeanette nudged her sister. “Have a care, Sue,” she whispered. “Perhaps this is not a suitable subject for discussion at the dinner table.”
“I fail to see why not,” Miss Claybone said. “After all, we’re all judging this Mr. Scrimgeour based on local tongue-wagging, are we not? What about you, Jeanie? Weren’t you known as the Holmestead Harlot before you married Henry?”
Jeanette colored and the duke cleared his throat, but Miss Claybone was not to be stopped. “And Countess Stiles had a reputation for insanity, if I recall. As for Mrs. Trelawney here, she was once known as the Deranged Duchess.”
Ross slammed his glass on the table, and Alice reached for his hand. Their gazes met, and she shook her head. His eyes, dark with anger, softened as she curled her fingers round his.
“Sister, that’s enough!” the duke growled. “Would you insult our hostess, not to mention our fellow guests?”
Miss Claybone colored and sat back. “Forgive me,” she said. “I meant no offense. I was merely pointing out that many of us have been made to suffer as a result of past misunderstandings. We, of all people, should understand the pain caused by a cruel nickname.”
“Miss Claybone is right, of course,” Alice said. “But now, perhaps, we can find something a little more pleasant as a topic for discussion. We are, after all, supposed to be enjoying Christmas. Ross, my love, were you able to procure some holly to decorate the drawing room with?”
Ross nodded, and the conversation soon turned to the forth
coming festivities. Mrs. Bascomb had promised to present them with the biggest roast goose to grace the tables of Cornwall since the Great Goose Incident of 1806—when the roast was so heavy that, according to the cook, it had split Sir Hugh Tremelling’s dining table in two.
The rest of the evening passed without incident, though Alice spent most of the meal picking at her food. She had been suffering from a bout of indigestion and, as much as she loved star-gazy pie, even small mouthfuls caused her stomach to cramp. After supper, Jeanette entertained the company at the pianoforte while Monty and Twinkle snored on in their baskets, Twinkle none the worse for wear after her adventure. By the time Alice had dismissed her maid and slipped into bed, the pain in her stomach had abated, soothed, no doubt, by the port she’d sipped while listening to the music.
The door opened and Ross appeared in the doorway, shirt unlaced, revealing a tempting thatch of curls on his chest, which she knew grew thicker lower down.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, drawing back the bedsheet, “though you seem somewhat overdressed for the occasion.”
His eyes widened at the sight of her naked body, and he ripped his shirt off and approached the bed. By the time he slipped in beside her, the rest of his clothes lay scattered about the floor. He pulled her against his body, her back against his chest.
“Are you still hungry after supper?” she teased. “Mrs. Bascomb will be most disappointed for not having given satisfaction.”
“It’s not Mrs. Bascomb I want to please tonight,” he said, his breath tickling against her ear, “neither do I wish to seek satisfaction from her.”
She relaxed into his arms, relishing the strength of his body, and the feel of him—hard, hot, and ready—against her back.
“Miss Claybone’s a prickly character, isn’t she?” he murmured, nuzzling against her ear.
“Must we talk of her?” Alice asked.
“I suppose not, but she seemed overly adamant in her defense of our neighbor. But then, perhaps, she was the voice of reason tonight. Despite his reputation, we none of us have cause to believe him a beast.”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 67