I dropped down onto the bench opposite the painting, suddenly too tired to even continue to harangue the ghost. I dropped my head into my hands.
Perhaps, if I drew him out again—stopped him from obsessing about Rachel—he would allow me to get some rest, at least for one night. If I could just get some sleep then maybe I could do what I had told the vicar I wanted to do. Maybe I could find a way to help this poor soul to find his way.
An idea struck me. I sat up again. “You know what I was thinking, my lord,” I began as if we had been having the most pleasant of conversations. “I have been reading some of the journals I found in your study.”
I completely ignored the fact that he was still moaning and wailing.
“And I believe that Mr. Hancock is going about this animal husbandry business all wrong. I mean, I understand the need for mixing the herds in the fall, but I don’t see the point in allowing the male sheep to fight, as apparently they have been, over the females. I understand there has been quite a lot of damage done through this. Mr. Hancock said that they’d even lost two of their prize studs because of this infighting.
“I’m thinking that perhaps instead of mixing the flocks together as he has been, we leave the females together in one field and the males together in another at the other end of the estate. This fighting wouldn’t take place every fall, and we wouldn’t run the risk of losing any more studs. Also,” I continued, “if the animals were kept separated in this way, then when it came time for the lambing in the spring, I believe the other females, those without offspring, would perhaps be less aggressive towards those that did.”
I rambled on in this ridiculous fashion for perhaps another ten minutes concluding with, “I plan on discussing this with Mr. Hancock as soon as he returns from the wool market. He should be back in three or four days, which will give me time to figure out this new plan.”
I stood up as if I had come to a final decision. “Yes, I shall have everything worked out for him by then. I am not entirely certain he will be pleased to carry out my idea, but if he doesn’t”—I gave a little shrug—“well, I’m certain I can find another man who would be more willing to work with me on this.”
I waited for a few moments for some sort of response from Lord Marcus, but there didn’t seem to be one forthcoming. I do have to admit, however, his cries were certainly less violent than they had been when I’d come into the gallery.
With that, I walked away and returned to my room. I can’t say that I enjoyed a good sound sleep after that nonsense, but at least I was able to get a bit more rest.
The following night, I awoke with a start. Sitting up in bed, I realized what had woken me.
Silence. The house was eerily silent.
Where were the moaning and cries I was used to? I found that I could hardly sleep without them, which annoyed me to no end because I clearly couldn’t sleep with them either. What was happening to me? I had always been a very good sleeper, until I’d come to this odd house with its moaning ghost.
I had spent a good portion of the day attempting to read Lady Bolingbrook’s diary, but I’m afraid the mind-numbing boredom, with which she had lived her life, made for reading that was just as tedious. I wanted nothing more than to get out of the house.
If only there was anyone on whom I could pay a social visit. The idea of meeting Lady Hollingsworth or her daughter had me both cringing and giggling at the same time. I hadn’t heard back from my sister, so I assumed that all was well with my father. Maybe that awful woman hadn’t written to him after all.
I spent a little time weeding the garden just to take a break from straining my eyes over the diary. I was quite pleased to discover a number of beds, that still had plenty of lovely flowers, which could be cut and brought inside. With care, I imagined that the plants could be coaxed into continuing to flower for, perhaps, another few weeks before it became too cold for them.
After luncheon, I returned to the tedium of reading Lady Bolingbrook’s diary. I had managed to read through nearly an entire month of the poor woman’s life and so far hadn’t learned much more than I had from the first entry.
Marcus worked hard much of the day, only joining her for dinner, and sometimes he didn’t even do that when he was invited to join the Samuelsons for dinner. It was rare that she was included in the invitation and she knew why. She felt that they were quite beneath her touch and did not hesitate to make them aware of it. She couldn’t understand how Marcus could stand their crude, informal ways. It was clearly “that girl” who kept him going back.
She worried constantly about Bolingbrook and Henry’s influence over him. And the neighboring ladies, whom she considered her friends, didn’t come to visit nearly often enough.
I had no idea who the Samuelsons were or whether “that girl” was Rachel. There was too little I knew of the neighborhood and its residents to truly understand what I was reading. I’d have to ask. Perhaps Mr. White at the Inn, since the Barkers had been so reluctant in answering my questions.
It was after reading about New Year visitors that I realized I still had a whole year of entries to get through. I’m afraid it was at that point I gave up for the day.
Lord Marcus, or just Marcus, as I had begun to think of him after reading his Christian name so often in Lady Bolingbrook’s diary, was strangely quiet that night. As I lay there in my bed, listening to the silence of the house, I had to admit I began to worry. I didn’t know what a ghost could possibly do, but if he wasn’t moaning and groaning, perhaps something else was wrong? Could he have actually gone somewhere? I didn’t know if that was possible, but I was determined to find out.
“Lord Marcus?” I said quietly, as I neared his portrait. “My lord, are you there?”
I lifted my candle and looked up into his serious green eyes, which somehow always seemed to be staring straight at me. And that’s when I heard it.
It was a strange sound, and I almost didn’t recognize it at first. I had only heard it once in my life, and then only very briefly and very faintly. But then it grew louder and louder until there was no mistaking it.
The ghost was laughing!
He was laughing out loud and with great hilarity. I couldn’t imagine what he was laughing at, but I must say that the sound of it warmed me to my toes. It was such a happy sound that I could hardly stop myself when I began to join in. Very soon we were both laughing, only I had no idea what we were laughing at.
When I had finally caught my breath, I asked, “Please, please, my lord, what is so funny?”
“You are!” he said, still giggling away. “Keep the male and the female sheep separate so there are no problems! And then there will be lambing in the spring?” He burst out laughing again.
This time truly I joined him. He had heard me last night! He had somehow, through his cries and moans, actually listened to the ridiculousness that I had spouted for over ten minutes.
When he had quieted his laughter once again, he asked gently, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
I could not tell a lie. “Naturally. I just didn’t know if you heard me or not.”
“It took me a while, but yes, I finally did hear you, Miss Grace.” He paused and then added, “And I thank you.”
For once, I was very happy that I was speaking to a ghost, for I’m certain that I blushed straight to the roots of my hair. “Oh! No need, my lord. No need at all.”
“Indeed, there is need. You have been exceedingly patient with me. Night after night you have come back, despite the fact that I don’t believe you have had one full night’s rest since you’ve come to Marshfield.”
“Oh, well...” I began, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s all right, I suppose. I’ve never been one to put a great deal of importance on a full night’s rest.”
He laughed at that and then said, “Honestly, you are very good to someone who has been nothing but a pest.”
“Oh no,” I said. If I were to be completely honest—well, no, I couldn’t lie to mysel
f—I had enjoyed attempting to speak with this recalcitrant ghost. And now here he was, actually speaking with me in the most ordinary fashion! My heart gave a flutter of excitement.
“But I shall not keep you tonight. I’m certain that you are exhausted and could do with one solid night’s rest. Please, return to your bed, Miss Grace, and sweet dreams.”
My breath caught and tears burned my eyes for a brief moment. I couldn’t talk for the lump in my throat, so I just nodded before turning away and walking slowly back to my room. Had I even realized what a sweet and kind man, er, ghost, Lord Marcus was, well, nothing would have changed. I was happy that he was no longer upset, and I was even more pleased that I had something to do with his recovery.
As I climbed into bed, I wondered if he would still be there the next night, or if he would finally make his way to his final rest. I didn’t know if I had actually solved whatever it was that was keeping him here. But in an odd way, I thought that I would miss him immensely if he did go on.
Chapter Nine
The following day was so beautiful, I just had to get out. I could barely get through my morning’s work. The first excuse I could find, I slipped away from the household accounts and ran to my room to change into my riding habit. The weather was fine, the ghost was happy, and there just didn’t seem to be anything wrong in the world. Well, if you didn’t count the fact that I wasn’t in London.
I laughed as I galloped across the fields, scaring the sheep this way and that. The dogs came barking after me, scolding me for disrupting their herds, but the men who were out among them just smiled and waved.
At first, I didn’t have a destination; I was just out riding for the sheer joy of feeling the wind in my hair and the rush of adrenaline through my blood.
But then as I rode around toward the village, I remembered that I had decided to seek out Mr. White at the inn and ask him about the Samuelsons. It also wouldn’t hurt to see if there was any mail for me. I was still waiting for an answer from the solicitor, even though I knew it was much too early to expect one.
Despite the ghost’s miraculous breakthrough the previous night, I admitted to myself that I was still curious as to how the gentleman had died. The few facts I had were sketchy at best, and I would have loved to fill in the details.
I rode straight to the inn, where I saw my horse into the stables and given a good rub down before heading into the inn. I had just walked through the door when the man speaking with Mr. White slammed his hand down on the bar forcefully.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Samuelson about this, I will! I refuse to be treated this way. It’s unacceptable. It’s... it’s...” In disgust and anger, the man turned and stormed out the door behind me.
I watched him go and then approached the innkeeper warily.
He was just standing there, shaking his head sadly. “I beg your pardon, Miss, that ye should have had to witness that,” he said when he saw me.
“It’s quite all right. I just...” I paused. Actually, I was grateful the man had given me an excuse to ask the innkeeper what I’d been curious about anyway.
“Who is Mr. Samuelson?”
“Oh, he’s the town magistrate. But don’t ye have any fears, he’s a good and honest man. And he’s heard often enough from old John Starven to know not to take anything he says at face value. He’ll hear my side of the story first, and we’ll get this straightened out.”
“Er... I’m very glad to hear that,” I said, honestly not knowing what Mr. Starven’s complaint with Mr. White was, nor did I truly want to know. I now had the answer to my question.
Clearly, if Mr. Samuelson was the magistrate, that would explain why Lady Bolingbrook would have felt it beneath her to have dinner with him and his family. It didn’t tell me why Marcus had been invited to dine often, but “that girl” might have had something to do with that.
“And what can I help ye with today, Miss?” Mr. White asked, pulling me back from my musings.
“Oh! I was just wondering if there was any mail to go up to Marshfield today?” I asked, leaning my hands against the bar.
“No, I’m afraid not, Miss. Expecting something?” he asked, a smile warming his eyes.
“Yes. A letter from London, but it’s early days yet. I suppose it was just wishful thinking that I might have received a reply.”
“Well, as soon as it comes I’ll be sure and get it to ye,” he said. “For now, however, it’s such a warm day, are ye sure ye wouldn’t be interested in a nice, cool mug of cider?”
I was tempted to take it just so that I could ask him some more questions, but I thought I’d try the lady at the general store once more first. If she didn’t have anything for me, I’d come back and have that cider, along with a chat with the innkeeper before I left to return home.
“Thank you, perhaps in a little bit,” I told him. “Business first then pleasure.”
He gave me a broad grin and a slight bow as I turned and headed out the door. I was almost all the way down the street to the store, when Mr. Collier, the vicar, strode up to me with a serious expression on his face.
I wanted to reprimand him for looking so very serious on such a beautiful day but thought that he might not take that so well.
“Miss Grace, what, may I ask, are you still doing here? I thought you were leaving Marshfield?” he said, reprimanding me.
I suddenly felt as if the good cheer I had been harboring all day had been sucked out of me. All that was left was the sourness of a lemon as I tried my hardest not to scowl at the vicar.
I pasted a smile on my lips and said, “I have no intention of leaving Marshfield, Mr. Collier. I thought I had informed you of that when you came to visit me.”
The man softened his tone as well as his expression, his eyes becoming gentle and sorrowful. “My dear, after what happened that day, I do not understand how you have not changed your mind.”
“I told you, sir, I don’t give up that easily.”
“Perhaps...” he began, then gave me a little smile and said, “Perhaps you’d care to join me for some tea, Miss Grace, and allow me the opportunity to change your mind. There are some, er, facts of which I think you should be aware.”
Well, facts and information were exactly what I’d come for. I supposed it would be wrong of me to dismiss what the vicar had to offer. I gave him a more honest smile and accepted his invitation.
The vicarage was a pleasant cottage with a cozy, little drawing room. We were served tea and lemon tarts by Mr. Collier’s housekeeper, a stern-looking, efficient woman. I would not like to be on the wrong side of her, I thought, giving her a smile as she passed me a cup.
As soon as she had left, Mr. Collier passed the plate of tarts to me saying, “I tried to tell you when we last met, Miss Grace, but it seems that you did not heed my words. Please mark them now. Neither Lord Marcus nor his mother was of sound mind. Thankfully, the Lords Bolingbrook, Lord Peter and his father, were the sane ones in the family. It was why both of them chose to live in town rather than subject themselves to the rest of the family’s, er, disturbing qualities.” He paused to help himself to a tart and a sip of his tea.
I knew that Lady Bolingbrook complained frequently in her diary of a nervous disposition, but enough ladies of society claim to have one that I didn’t pay much attention to it. I nodded encouragingly for him to go on.
“His lordship’s mother, after a very difficult first season in London, was married to Lord Bolingbrook, who treated her kindly, thinking her simply a delicate, fragile young woman. He didn’t learn until it was too late, that it was her state of mind that was fragile. I’m afraid she suffered a great deal.”
“Suffered from what?” I asked.
“Oh, everything,” he answered. “Everything that happened to her, even if it was in the normal course of events, she felt everything very strongly. And these things upset her, naturally.” He leaned forward toward me and said, “I have had it on the best of authorities that even something as minor as one of the boys falling
and scraping his knee was enough to send the woman to her bed for the entire day.”
“My goodness,” I murmured into my cup.
So, she had delicate sensibilities? Granted, I’d never known anyone like that personally, but Rose had told of a number of young ladies of the ton who were. And I wouldn’t be surprised if my own father wished his daughters were more sensitive. He was forever complaining that we were too bold and forthright. Rose had very nearly lost Fungy, before he became her husband, because of her honesty.
Now that Mr. Collier had warmed to his subject, he was as bad as any of the nasty tabbies who inhabited London society and spread malicious rumors. I had a sour taste in my mouth, and it was not from the lemon tart.
“It was unclear when they were children if Marcus was spared this malady of his mother’s. Peter most certainly had his own problems.” He paused dramatically and then said, “Marcus almost never let his brother out of his sight—his older brother, mind you. It was not the other way around, as is common. Eventually, Marcus grew to trust Henry with the boy, but no one else, and even that took some time.”
“Henry is your son?” I asked, vaguely remembering that he might have mentioned him the last time we met.
“Yes. He and Peter were the same age. Peter worshiped Henry.” He gave a small distant smile as he remembered. Coming back to the present, he said, “It wasn’t until Peter’s capture that Marcus lost what little control he had. The man went berserk. I am sorry to say, there is no other word for it. He simply went mad when he heard about his brother. It was what drove him to the insanity of traveling to the wilds of America to rescue Peter from the savages.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “What else would make a man do such a thing?”
What else? I could possibly think of some other things: love for his brother, hope that he was still alive, there were quite a few possibilities. Insanity wasn’t the one I would have jumped to.
“So you see, my dear,” the vicar said, sitting back after telling his tale, “I know that now you will do the right thing and leave Marshfield once and for all. The place is clearly haunted with malevolent memories, to say nothing of the actual ghost. It cannot be a healthy place for a bright, young thing such as yourself.”
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