My Lord Ghost

by Meredith Bond

  I put down my teacup and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Collier, for being so open and forthcoming with me.” For sharing such gossip and tales that no respectable man of civility, let alone a man of God who is perhaps privy to more intimate information than anyone else, would share with someone outside of the immediate family.

  I was as polite as I could manage, while seething inside at the vicar’s accusations. I had no way of knowing whether what Mr. Collier said was true or not, but that was neither here nor there; I was still angry. If not for myself, then for Lord Marcus, who didn’t deserve such treatment after he had died for such a noble cause—rescuing his brother from savages.

  Somehow, Mr. Collier’s words spurred within me an even stronger desire to know precisely what happened to Lord Marcus. Unfortunately, it was now too late to visit the dry goods shop to get some real, useful information.

  I decided, while I ate my dinner that evening, that the only way I was ever going to get the truth of what happened was to ask Lord Marcus directly. It may not have been the correct thing to do—I don’t know what is proper when speaking with a ghost—but it was the only way I could find what really happened. I wanted to know how he had died and what, if anything, was keeping him here.

  All evening long, I talked myself up for doing this. I took a brisk walk around the garden giving myself reason after reason why I should do this, thinking of all of the ways in which a ghost would be horribly offended at my probing questions. But I tried not to think about that.

  When I woke up that night, the house was as quiet as it had been the previous night. Immediately, my heart sank. What would I do if my ghost wasn’t there? Even as I prepared myself both mentally and physically for confronting him, I feared that it would all be for nothing. He had been in such a good mood the previous night. He had been laughing and joking. Surely, a ghost who can laugh is not one who is destined to stay in this world for much longer, I thought dejectedly. And yet, I had to go and find out for certain.

  “Ah, you’ve come!” the ghost said as I entered the long gallery. I stopped short but could not contain my laughter and joy that he was still there.

  I rushed to the center of the room. “Of course I’ve come. How could I stay away?” I asked rhetorically. “I was afraid that you would not be here.”

  “Me?” he laughed. “Where could I possibly go?”

  “To your great heavenly reward?” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Oh.” He didn’t seem to be very excited at the prospect. “No. I have not gone there yet.”

  “May I ask why not? I mean, I do hope you will forgive me, but I don’t understand why you are here,” I added, feeling more and more nervous that I might offend him in some way. If I did, I didn’t know how I would ever be able to hear his story or help him.

  “This is my home,” he answered simply.

  “Yes, of course it is, but... well,” I took a deep breath and gathered all my courage. “Could you... Would you mind very much telling me your story?” I asked, using the words I had finally decided upon earlier that evening. Yes, I had debated back and forth whether I could actually say the words, “How did you die?” I had finally hit upon this solution and now that I had said it, I was glad for it. It not only sounded right to my ear, it felt right too.

  There was, despite my carefully chosen words, a moment of silence.

  “What story do you want to hear?” he asked, in a rather hollow-sounding voice. “What do you want to know?”

  I had been afraid he would ask that. Thank goodness, once again, I was prepared. “I don’t know. Perhaps you could tell me about your life, your childhood,” I said in a casual way.

  “My childhood?” Clearly, he had not expected this. He gave a little laugh and then said, “Very well. My childhood. Let’s see. I believe it was rather very ordinary actually. I grew up here at Marshfield. My father preferred living in town, but my mother lived here with me and my older brother, Peter.”

  “How much older was your brother?”

  “Less than a year. We were eleven months apart to be exact,” he said sadly.

  I stayed quiet, allowing him the moment.

  “We were very close, not just in age, but friends. He was my closest friend.” He paused, and then continued much more slowly, as if he were thinking his words out carefully before he spoke them. “He was very good and kind. He did anything I asked of him. Anything at all. And sometimes he would just do things for people on his own—kind things, thoughtful things. He always thought of others ahead of himself.”

  I waited patiently for him to continue.

  “It was a problem sometimes.”

  “What was?” I asked quietly.

  “He trusted people. He thought they were like him. He had a very strong sense of honor, like a medieval knight.” He laughed. “Our mother used to read us tales from King Arthur when we were little. Peter always said that he was going to grow up to be Lancelot, and I would be the wise magician, Merlin.” He stopped again. “He was that way, like Lancelot, a chivalrous knight. And unless someone proved otherwise, he expected others to just as honorable.”

  I held my breath, waiting for him to go on, imagining this sweet, good-hearted young man. I could most definitely imagine him gracing society’s halls, loved by everyone.

  “We grew up with Henry Collier, the vicar’s son. They were of an age and nearly inseparable.” He gave a little laugh. “Peter thought Henry was just like himself. Honest and good. Well, why wouldn’t he be? His father was the vicar. How could anyone who grew up in such a religious family be anything other than what he seemed? He believed everything Henry told him, did whatever Henry suggested.” Lord Marcus sighed. “We would fight over that. Henry would tell him to do some awful things because he thought it was funny and he knew that if Peter did them, he’d get into horrible trouble. Our father wasn’t here, and Mother never reprimanded us no matter what we did. But then Henry convinced Peter to go with him to America.”

  “You want to do what?” I nearly screamed. Peter just stood there, stone-faced. “I am going to America with Henry. He says there’s a fortune to be made there.”

  “You already have a good income. The estate is quite profitable. I don’t understand why you feel the need to travel to America.” I was confused.

  “I do, but Henry does not,” he said.

  I shook my head. “And how is that your problem? Besides, isn’t he going to inherit from his uncle?”

  Peter shrugged. “Apparently his uncle sent him back here with a bug in his ear, something about appropriate behavior or some such nonsense.”

  I narrowed my eyes at my brother. “So Henry is worried that he won’t inherit after all.”

  He shrugged again. “I suppose. But going to America will be a grand adventure, exploring the Wild West, meeting new and different people. I have to say, London gets rather tiring after a while.”

  “You could always move back here,” I suggested.

  He just scowled. “But you manage the estate and everything here. Besides, Yorkshire is even more boring than London.”

  I sighed. “Peter, I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

  My brother straightened up. “Henry said you’d say that. The thing is, Marcus, I’m not asking your permission. I’m telling you what I’m doing as a courtesy to you.”

  His words hit me like a punch in the gut. Of course, he didn’t need to ask my permission. He was the viscount, after all. I said nothing. What could I say?

  He frowned at my silence but then seemed to shrug it off. “I need money to buy our tickets and to live on when we first get there.”

  “I see.” And indeed, I did. Not only had Henry convinced my brother to go along with this crazy scheme, he needed him to finance it as well.

  “Do you have cash on hand, or will I need to stop in London on my way?”

  “There is nothing I can say to make you change your mind?” I had to ask just one more time.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”
>
  I sighed and shook my head.

  “You couldn’t convince him not to go?”

  “I tried everything,” Marcus said, desperation still evident in his voice. “But Peter would not be swayed. Henry must have done quite a job convincing him, because there was simply nothing I could say that would sway him from his decision.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which we both mourned Peter’s determination.

  “My mother was especially upset by his decision.”

  My mother gripped the lapels of my coat and looked up at me. Her eyes were filled with anguish and worry. “You can’t let him go! Please, Marcus, you’ve got to stop him! You can’t let my sweet, gentle boy face the dangers and deprivation of that wild place.” She dropped her head down onto my chest, sobbing.

  I was helpless. What could I do? I had already done everything I could to convince my brother not to go. We had argued for over an hour, but for every reason I gave why he shouldn’t go, Peter had at least two for why he should—not the least of which was the fact that Henry was going.

  I rubbed my hands up and down my mother’s back trying to console her. “There, there, Mother, there, there.” But she would not be quieted.

  Feebly, she hit her fist against my chest. “Don’t let him go,” she cried. “You can’t let him go.”

  “I don’t want him to go any more than you do. But he is a man grown. I can’t stop him.”

  “He will die,” my mother wailed. “I couldn’t stand to lose him so soon after your father.”

  “Father died nearly four years ago,” I pointed out.

  She shook her head. “It seems like yesterday.”

  A thought came to me. I pulled my mother away from me so that I could look down into her face.

  Her eyes and nose were red with crying and her lips trembled. “Perhaps,” I said, gently wiping away a tear as it made its way down her soft cheek, “perhaps, you could speak to him?”

  “Me?”

  “He wouldn’t listen to me. But perhaps he would listen to you, Mother. You know how much he adores you.”

  She gave me a tremulous smile. “He does, the dear boy. He is always bringing me little gifts, every time he comes home. And he writes me the most wonderful long letters.”

  She stood up and away from me on her own. Pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve, she wiped away her tears then delicately blew her nose. Signaling to me that she was doing better, she put her hand on my arm and allowed me to guide her to the chaise longe.

  After lying down in a most elegant pose and fixing her skirts, she gave me a nod and said, “Have Joseph fetch your brother here.”

  I gave her an encouraging smile and a small bow before going to do her bidding.

  “If I hadn’t known that her emotions were real, I would have said that her performance that afternoon was masterful,” the ghost said, his deep voice resonating beautifully through me. “She wept and cried. I think she even fainted away at one point because a maid was sent for Mother’s smelling salts. I was not there. I couldn’t bear to watch such things. And besides, I didn’t want to be a distraction to her pleas.”

  “But did it work?” I asked.

  He sighed. “No. I don’t know how Peter withstood it, but somehow he came out of Mother’s private parlor just as determined to go, although much sadder about doing so.” Lord Marcus paused. “He was such a sensitive man. I really don’t understand how he could face our mother, and all that she said and did, and still come out so determined. Somehow when Peter was told to do something, and he had made up his mind to do it, there was nothing that could stop him.”

  Chapter Ten

  I was speaking with Mr. Hancock, learning about how he had faired at the wool market, when Mr. Barker strode into the stables with a very determined step. I immediately stood up. I had never seen Mr. Barker outside of the house before. There must have been something wrong.

  “What is it, Mr. Barker? What’s happened?”

  He looked at me with a very serious, even grim expression on his face.

  “Visitors, Miss.”

  “Visitors?” I was momentarily confused.

  “Yes, Miss. Lady Hollingsworth and her daughter. They are awaiting ye in the formal drawing room.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “I couldn’t say, Miss,” Mr. Barker answered with a small smile, as if to say that he completely agreed with me that the ladies were not precisely welcome guests.

  “Humph. Well, I suppose I shall have to see them.” I looked down at my riding habit. I had intended to go out riding as soon as I had finished with Mr. Hancock, but now that would have to wait.

  “I suppose Mrs. Barker should make some tea. And if she has any cake that would be appropriate to serve, I expect she should bring that along as well. I will, er, change and be there directly.” I then turned to Mr. Hancock, who looked mildly amused for some reason. Or perhaps that was an expression of relief in his eyes. Whichever it was, I said, “We’ll finish this later, then.”

  That stole the satisfaction right from his face.

  It took me much longer to change than it should have, but since I didn’t have a maid any longer, everything was just a little more difficult. It is sad but true, most ladies’ dresses are not made to be put on by oneself.

  The younger of the two ladies sitting in my drawing room stood up as I entered the room, and I realized that we’d never actually been introduced. I knew that she was Lady Hollingsworth’s daughter, Constance, but I didn’t know her last name or how to address her. There’s the problem of women waiting for others to introduce them. Sometimes it never happened.

  “Good morning. I am terribly sorry for making you wait. I was with my steward going over estate business,” I said with a smile.

  “You are managing the estate?” Lady Hollingsworth asked with quiet outrage.

  “Oh no. The steward is doing so. I am merely overseeing him.”

  Lady Hollingsworth’s mouth started to fall open, but she caught it as Mrs. Butler came in at that moment with a silver tea service I had never seen before.

  She bustled about for a minute, making sure everything was just right. The plate of cake, which I assumed had been intended for our dessert that evening, was placed directly in front of Lady Hollingsworth.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Barker, that is lovely,” I said. I conveyed my thanks for her miraculous production of a very respectable tea with a smile.

  She clearly understood my message, for she was looking quite pleased as she gave her curtsey before leaving us alone again.

  I poured the tea, secure in the knowledge that I was being much more polite to these ladies than they had been to me when I’d come to visit them. “Some cake, Lady Hollingsworth?” I asked, indicating that she should help herself.

  “Thank you.” The response was cold, seeming almost forced from her lips.

  She served herself a slice of cake as I handed a cup of tea to her daughter—whose name I still didn’t know—with a bright smile. The more uncomfortable both women looked, the more I began to enjoy myself.

  Once everyone was served, I took a fortifying sip of my tea and then asked, “If I remember correctly, when I came to visit you, I was told that you would not be speaking to me until we were properly introduced. To what or whom do I owe for your change of heart?” Lady Hollingsworth looked as if she’d just placed a lemon rather than a piece of cake into her mouth.

  I waited patiently while she chewed deliberately and then took a sip of tea. She attempted to give me a smile. It didn’t work out so well, coming off more of a grimace, but I think she meant well. “The vicar requested Constance and I visit, actually.”

  “Oh?” Why would the vicar want Lady Hollingsworth to speak to me?

  “Yes. He is concerned for your welfare, seeing as how you seem to be ignoring all of his suggestions that you leave this house.”

  “I see. And he thought that perhaps you would have more sway over me than he has?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  “Well, I am so sorry to have wasted your time, my lady, but I will not be leaving Marshfield anytime soon,” I answered, debating whether I should stand up and ask her to leave as she had done to me.

  I decided to continue on my high road. It might have been much more satisfying to kick the woman out, but I was trying to learn to be mature. Surely, being polite to someone who was so rude to me counted in my favor.

  “But how can you stay here?” Constance asked, actually speaking for the first time.

  “You know, if things had worked out the way they should have, it would be Constance who would be accepting visitors here rather than you,” Lady Hollingsworth interrupted.

  If things had worked out the way they should have, it wouldn’t have been Lord Marcus’ ghost who was staying here but the man himself, I thought. I bit my tongue to keep the words in my mouth.

  Instead, I kept my expression one of polite interest. “What happened?”

  “I met Lord Shipley,” Constance said, with a lift of her delicate nose.

  “Yes, he quite swept her off her feet, didn’t he, my dear,” her mother said to her fondly. She then turned back to me and said, “They met at Lady Chatworth’s ball in Constance’s first season.”

  “I knew right away that he was the one for me,” Lady Shipley said. I assumed they’d married. She then added with a little sneer, lifting up the right side of her lips, “Lord Marcus never even went to London for the season. I couldn’t marry a man who never went to London,” she said, cutting a small piece of the cake on her plate with her fork and then sliding it into her mouth in a very self-satisfied way.

  “Why then, Lord Bolingbrook himself would have been more suitable for you, wouldn’t he?” I asked.

  It was her turn to pinch her mouth just as her mother had. “Bolingbrook and I never got along. Henry Collier is a vile creature.”