My Lord Ghost

by Meredith Bond

  “Yes, Miss. He’s waiting in the drawing room upstairs. I hope that’s all right? I figured since he was yer father, he should be put in the family drawing room rather than the formal one.”

  He looked worried that he’d done something wrong, so I quickly reassured him. “No, that’s exactly right. I just hadn’t known he was coming, that’s all,” I explained as I started out the door.

  My father was standing in the family drawing room, staring into the fire when I entered the room. “Papa!”

  My father turned around. “What’s this all about, Laia? Your sister has been filling my ears with nonsense about a ghost, and last week I received a letter from the Bolingbrook solicitors in response to a request you made for Lord Marcus Bolingbrook’s correspondence? Are you so desperate to come back to London that you’d have your sister create stories for you? Do you have nothing better to do here than to pry into the personal correspondence of a dead man?”

  The onslaught of his anger had me retreating toward the door slowly, step by step, with each point he made.

  “N-n-no, Papa.”

  A few long strides brought my father within arm’s reach. He stopped for a minute, looking me over with such a fierce expression on his face, it positively had me trembling. And then in a moment, it was gone and he pulled me into his arms, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

  “I’ve missed you, my little muse. The house has never been so quiet. I miss your cheerful chatter, and yes, even the disturbing reports I’ve always received, concerning your questionable behavior.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve missed you too, Papa.” I pulled back to look up at him. “Thank you for going through the discomfort of traveling to come see me.”

  His deep brown eyes no longer looked angry, much to my relief. “I would go to any amount of trouble for you, my child. Now tell me what all this nonsense is about.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Papa. This is no game I’m playing, no trick. Rose wasn’t making up stories for me, I swear.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You want me to believe that there really is a ghost?”

  “Yes, there is. I requested the correspondence so that I could learn more about the man. I’m doing my research, studying my subject, learning his history, all the things you’ve taught me to do when faced with a new discovery.”

  Papa nodded and pulled a letter from inside his coat. Opening it, he scanned it and said, “Well, I’m afraid this avenue of research has been closed. The solicitors have destroyed all of Bolingbrook’s correspondence as per his instructions.”

  He handed the letter to me.

  My Lord,

  I am writing in response to a request made by Miss Aglaia Grace, regarding the correspondence of his lordship, Marcus Bolingbrook. I am sorry to say that upon confirmation that both his lordship and his brother, the viscount, were not among those who survived the sinking of The Lady Honoria off the coast of Ireland this past February, we duly enacted his final request that his desk at Marshfield be emptied of all private correspondence and that it be destroyed forthwith.

  Thank you for your kind understanding in this matter.

  I am....

  Wait! According to this, Marcus hadn’t died at the hands of the Indians! This entire past week I’ve been thinking that it was they who had killed him, and I just hadn’t been able to face that recounting. But clearly, there was much more to Marcus’ story yet to come. My spirits began to lift immediately.

  “Why does this look to be good news to you?” my father asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  I opened my mouth to tell him, but then realized it would make me sound even more insane than to believe in a ghost in the first place. Not that he’d said anything even close to that, but he had to be thinking it. My father was a scientist. He needed proof before he could believe in the validity of a thesis. Right now, Marcus was simply hypothetical. Something I, and clearly Rose, believed in, but which had yet to be proven in his eyes.

  “It tells me where and how Lord Marcus and his brother died. I hadn’t known before this, so I’m happy to get the information.” There, that sounded perfectly sane and reasonable.

  My father nodded his approval.

  I spent the rest of the morning telling my father what I knew so far of Marcus’ story. The afternoon was spent with Mr. Hancock, discussing the running of the estate, although this time not while touring, as my father was too tired from his journey to Marshfield. I didn’t know about Mr. Hancock, but I appreciated not having to do that again quite so soon.

  “You have things well in hand, here, Hancock,” my father said after their conversation had run its course.”

  Mr. Hancock nodded. “As I mentioned at the beginning, my lord, I’ve been managing this estate for many years.”

  “Yes, and will continue to do so for many more, if I have anything to say about it.”

  I gave a little laugh. “Why would you not have a say, Papa?”

  He gave me an odd smile. “Well, if your husband wishes to make changes when he takes over, that will be up to him.”

  My mouth dropped open. “So you are going to make Marshfield part of my dowry?”

  “Yes. I think you deserve it. And you seem to like it here, so why not?” He paused in thought for a moment, then added, “I’ll have to see what I can do to add to Thalia’s dowry to make hers commensurate or at least a little closer, but that’s a problem for another day.”

  “Thank you, Papa!” The words truly came from my heart.

  Oddly, I had fallen in love with Marshfield and had begun to think of it as mine. Now that it truly would be, it made me so happy that I jumped up and gave my father a kiss.

  He just chuckled and patted my hand. “You are most welcome.”

  My father retired immediately after dinner that evening, claiming exhaustion. I was just as happy because I wanted to get a little sleep myself before I told Marcus the good news of my father’s generosity. Somehow, that night I overslept and it was Marcus himself who woke me. His moans and cries were as pitiful as ever.

  I jumped out of bed and then literally ran into my father in the hallway. “Is that your ghost?” he asked, his eyes wide in the flickering of our bed candles.

  “Yes. I don’t know why he’s crying, though. He’s been fine for the past few days,” I said. “You go back to bed, Papa. I’ll take care of this.”

  I turned and hurried to the gallery.

  “Marcus,” I called out, entering the long room, “what’s wrong?”

  There was no answer at first, just wails of despair that tore into my heart. “Marcus, you must stop and tell me how I can help you.”

  “NO! NO! NO!” His screams died down into a whimper.

  “Is that him?” my father asked, making me jump and nearly drop my candle. I hadn’t realized that he’d followed me. He was holding his candle up before the portrait I was standing in front of, that of the elder Lord Bolingbrook, Marcus’ father.

  “No, that one,” I said, pointing to the one next to it, Marcus’ portrait.

  “Ah! Of course.” My father gave a little laugh.

  How he could do so while Marcus moaned and wept, I just couldn’t imagine.

  “What do you mean, ‘of course’?” I asked.

  “Well, he’s young and handsome, just like all your beaux.”

  “I don’t have any beaux! And Marcus is dead,” I pointed out. How could my father be so ridiculous at a time like this?

  “Well, I just meant all the gentlemen, er, friends you have. Those to whom you’ve introduced yourself.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose they are all handsome, but Marcus is different. You must see that.”

  “WHO ARE YOU?” Marcus shouted, cutting off our odd conversation.

  My father turned, startled, toward his portrait from whence the sound seemed to come. I had to give him credit though, the hand holding his candle shook only slightly.

  “I am Pemberton-Howe, the new owner of this property and Laia’s fat
her.”

  “NO! No! No.” Marcus’ voice faded away as if he were traveling down the length of the gallery, only no footsteps could be heard. “Go away,” he whispered before there was silence in the house once more.

  We stood there for a moment in astonishment before my father said, “I think I scared him away.”

  I could only nod. No one had ever scared Marcus before. Not the pastor, my friends and sister, no one. He’d always scared the others away. Not once had he shown any fear of them.

  “I don’t trust that he’ll be gone long,” my father said, turning and retracing his steps back toward his bedroom. “But hopefully I’ll be on my way by then. Will you come with me?” He stopped walking and turned back to me for my answer.

  “No, Papa. As you said, I like it here at Marshfield. And I can’t leave Marcus just yet.”

  “He may have just left you,” he pointed out.

  I agreed. “He may have, but until I know for certain, I need to stay.”

  “You have truly matured, my girl,” Father said with some awe in his voice.

  He gave me a kiss on my forehead. “You know when I sent you here, it was as much for you, hoping you would do better for being away from the city for some time, as it was for society. So they could forget you and your antics in order to welcome you properly when you make your debut. But now,” —he gave a little chuckle— “I don’t think they will remember at all the girl you were, when they are reintroduced to the lovely young woman you’ve become.”

  My father left two days later, and I still hadn’t heard a peep from Marcus.

  That night and every night for the following days, I awoke in the middle of the night and went to the gallery to call out to him. Each night that I didn’t hear anything, I grew more and more worried.

  I was dozing on the bench in the gallery three nights later when I heard it.

  “Laia?”

  I sat up.

  “Laia?” Marcus’ voice whispered out.

  “Yes, Marcus, I’m here,” I answered.

  “Oh, I’m so glad!” he said, with obvious relief in his voice.

  “You came back.”

  “Well, I never really left, you know,” he said with a little laugh.

  “I thought you had,” I admitted.

  “Where could I go?”

  “I don’t know, to heaven?” I said.

  “Oh, um... no,” he said with a sigh. “I’m not ready to go there yet. And who knows, maybe I’ll go the other way.”

  “I doubt that.” It was my turn to laugh.

  There was silence for a minute while emotions of relief and joy surged through me. He was back!

  “You won’t ever leave me, will you, Laia?” Marcus asked quietly. “Or if you do, you’ll come back, won’t you?”

  “I will go away some time. I’m going to have my debut in London in the spring. But I’ll be back.”

  “Good. Because I, I need you.”

  I stood and moved closer to his portrait. His bright green eyes peered down at me. “I need you too, Marcus,” I said.

  “I’ve come to depend on you,” he continued. “You make me feel... you make me feel better.”

  “Good. That’s what I want to do. I want you to feel better.” I paused, wondering if I dared admit aloud all that I was feeling at that moment—all the happiness, confusion, a deep sense of caring. Oh, I didn’t know all that was going through me; I only knew that I felt so much better now that Marcus was back with me.

  “You make me feel good too,” I finally admitted.

  “Do I?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “I’m glad. And I’m glad your father didn’t force you to leave with him. I was afraid he was going to take you away,” Marcus said.

  “No. He understands that I’m needed here. That you need me,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine what it would be like here without you. You have brought such, such life to this house. Life and happiness. Two things that haven’t been here for the longest time.”

  “I enjoy being here, and I enjoy being with you.”

  “Not nearly as much as I enjoy being with you, Laia.” The warmth in his voice melted me away.

  I reached out and caressed the frame of his picture, wishing it were truly him I was touching.

  “I never realized how hollow my life was before I met you,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I guess I was always looking for something or someone. I was always introducing myself to men. Sometimes women too, but mostly men.”

  Marcus laughed. “That’s not an appropriate thing for a young girl to be doing.”

  “No. In fact…” I paused. Dare I tell him the truth? I laughed at myself. Who’s he going to tell? “The real reason I’m here is because I introduced myself to the wrong person.”

  “Oh dear! Who?”

  “Viscount Yardley.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t think I know him.”

  “You might not. He was just down from Oxford for a few days. His mother is the Duchess of Bromfield.”

  “Her, I’ve heard of. She’s a notorious gossip!”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know all that at the time.”

  “So your father sent you to Marshfield as punishment.”

  “He said that I needed to grow up, to mature before my debut. He’s also hoping that society will forget that I didn’t know how to behave properly,” I admitted.

  “Being here has taught you how to behave in society?” he asked skeptically.

  “No, but I have matured. My father said so just before he left the other day.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “I don’t believe for a minute that you didn’t know how to behave before. Why would you introduce yourself to people? What were you looking for?”

  I staggered back a step. How did he know? How could he see right inside of me when no one—not even Rose or my father had done so? When even I myself hadn’t realized it until he’d said so?

  Finally, I shrugged and tried to find an answer for him. “I don’t know. A connection? A friend? Someone who understood me?” Like you, I added silently.

  “And did you find that?” he asked.

  “Yes. When I introduced myself to you.”

  Another moment passed. “I feel the same way. Somehow, beyond all comprehension, you understand me.”

  I reached out and caressed his portrait’s frame again, longing for some human touch. It was ridiculous, I know. Marcus was dead, but I wanted to touch him and be touched by him by more than just his smooth voice. But the portrait was all I had.

  “I... care, Marcus.”

  “I know, Laia. And that makes all the difference. It’s why I don’t think I could live for very long without you.”

  I didn’t point out that he wasn’t living now. I simply said, “I won’t leave you. Not for long. Ever.”

  Much later that night as I slept in my bed, I felt that there was someone in the room with me. I don’t know how to explain it because I didn’t fully wake up, but there was just that sensation that I wasn’t alone.

  I found it very comforting.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following night I asked Marcus to continue with his story.

  “Are you certain?” he asked dubiously.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I sat down on the bench across from his portrait and looked up into his eyes.

  “You were with the Indians when we stopped. Were you able to get free somehow? Did they let you go? What happened?”

  Marcus gave a little laugh. “You won’t believe it when I tell you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Peter came back the following day with the cavalry,” Marcus said, his voice sounding light. “He and the interpreter had gone straight to Fort Shelby and told them what happened. Apparently, the commanding officer was furious. First of all, that I hadn’t come to him before handing over all those weapons to the Indians, and secondly, because the Indians were breaking a treaty by holdin
g me.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes. Once he’d gotten past his fury, he gathered his troops and they rode out to rescue me. I didn’t see it because I was tied up inside one of their tents, but apparently they made quite an impressive entrance, firing shots into the air and galloping into the campground.”

  I awoke to the feel of the ground shaking with the thunder of horses. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, but the cloth tied across my mouth and the burn of ropes around my wrists when I tried to move my hands from behind reminded me all too well. One of my jailors jumped up and started screaming and kicking me. Luckily, another stopped him, calming him down, but they both looked at me furtively.

  The shouting from outside made it past the thumping in my ears of my own heartbeat and heavy breathing. The voice of a Native American that sounded both old and decisive carried, but I couldn’t understand his words. Then I recognized the voice of the translator from the fort as he quoted, “How dare you accuse us of such a crime! We never would take one of your men. What purpose would we have with a white man?”

  “I understand you’re holding him for a ransom of weapons, and I’m going to tell you now that you will never, under any circumstances receive more weapons from us. You shouldn’t have gotten those you have, and if I had learned of this, I would have put a stop to it long before it happened. Now give me this man.”

  “What weapons? We have no weapons. You speak falsely. Who is telling you such tales?” the chief’s loud voice asked through the translator.

  “It’s no tale. My brother was taken right before my eyes and that was after he delivered a whole chest full of weapons in exchange for me.” The sound of Peter’s voice made me sag with relief.

  “You? Who are you?” the Native American asked.

  “What? I’ve been held against my will in that teepee over there for the past four months!” my brother nearly shouted, his voice high with tension.

  I could hear footsteps coming closer.

  One of my captors quickly threw a rug on top of me, but the dust in it threw me into a sneezing fit. In a moment, it was ripped off again, and I was looking up into the furious eyes of a very old man wearing a skin shirt and leather leggings. He stepped over me to confront the men who abducted me the day before.