Aw, the old darling.
“When there were more servants in the house, Mother used to have Cook do a roast for the staff on Saturday nights,” he continued. “Lord Cranbury, you see, he wanted his roast with the family on Sunday.”
“I’m flattered.” She looked around the kitchen which, in contrast to Lamb’s intensive labour, was still immaculate. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“If you wouldn’t mind taking the puddings out of the muffin tins, that would be kind.”
The puddings, of the Yorkshire variety, were a sunny yellow in the centre, and golden brown around the edges. She breathed deeply the sweet steam that fanned out when she pulled each one from its tin. It was heavenly.
“I haven’t had much Yorkshire pudding, but I remember liking it the once or twice I did have it.”
“I do hope so. These are from Mother’s recipe.”
“Another famous Mrs. Lamb recipe? You’ll have to show me some of them sometime.”
“Er, well, I don’t have them written down. They’re… they’re all in my head, you see.”
“Didn’t you say you had a cook?”
“Oh, that was in the very old days. Back then, Mother was the head housekeeper, and there was a separate cook. Mrs. MacGuffy was her name. She and Mother got on famously. Mrs. MacGuffy passed in ’sixty-four. By that time, the girls—that is, Lady Camille and Lady Anne-Marie—they had married and moved away. After that, his lordship saw no reason to employ a new cook.”
“I hope your mother got a raise for taking on the extra work.”
Lamb shrugged. “Well, Mother’s no’ one to complain. She does love Tullybrae so. Do you have the bottle of red?”
Emmie reached into the tote hanging from her bent arm. “So this is why you wanted it, you sly devil.”
Stuffed full of roast beef, mashed potatoes, two Yorkshire puddings, and the best apple crumble she’d ever tasted, Emmie retreated to the third floor. Tonight would be an early night, preceded by a nice, long soak and more of her book. Her head was warm with the wine, just enough to make her feel exceedingly content, yet not so much that she would feel poorly in the morning.
It was as she was lumbering up the servants’ stairs, watching thin patches of clouds brush across the moon through the window, that a niggling thought pricked her brain. Something Lamb had said.
He said his mother does love Tullybrae. Does—present tense.
The thought brought her to a halt, one foot suspended in the air to take the next step. Lady Rotherham said the house was haunted, and Lamb said his mother loves Tullybrae.
Could it be…?
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she chided. Lady Rotherham clearly said there were two ghosts: the sixth Countess of Cranbury, and the young girl Clara. No mention of any others, and certainly not of Lamb’s mother.
Fun to think about, though.
In her room, Emmie changed out of her clothes. Even for a day out she’d made the effort to dress up. Her favourite slim-cut, dark denim jeans were folded neatly and put back in their drawer. Her black ballerina flats were lined up precisely beneath her bed, and her white tunic-style shirt went into the armoire on its hanger. The delicate gold bracelet and her teardrop silver earrings came off piece by piece and were returned to their designated places in her jewellery box.
It was a ritual she never missed—putting each item back where it belonged. It was like a book end. She started the day in a state of order, and she finished it that way.
Swaddled in her plush bathrobe, with her gentle curls twisted into a clip, Emmie padded down the hall to the bathroom, with a scented candle and a box of matches in one hand, a jar of bath salts in the other, and her book tucked beneath her arm.
She turned the taps onto full blast, sending up a rich steam. Once her candle was lit and her salts liberally sprinkled into the churning water, Emmie perched on the edge of the tub, untied her robe and lowered the collar over her shoulders. For long moments she sat there, skimming her fingers over the rising surface of the water. The bath salts effervesced at the bottom of the tub, filling the room with the pleasing scent of vanilla, which mingled with the sandalwood from the candle. Her book lay atop the sink counter, but now that she was here, she didn’t much feel like reading.
When the bath was full, she twisted the knobs shut, hung her robe on the hook on the wall, and stepped into the tub. The water caressed her bare skin. She sank completely beneath the surface, held her breath a few counts, then rose languorously back up. Laying her head on the rim, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the silence, the relaxation, and the scents.
With no windows, the air in the bathroom was still. The candle sent up a steady, strong flame, infusing the room with a warming glow. No draft disturbed her tranquility here, not like in the rest of the servants’ wing, where it whistled and whined and grated on her nerves at times. The scents of vanilla and sandalwood thickened the air, wrapping her like a lover’s embrace.
Better than a lover’s embrace. It offered comfort without wanting something in return. Emmie let herself slip into a deep state of contentment.
She sighed, her voice low and resonant.
Then another sigh, one that lingered on her lips.
And then another sigh which turned into the stirrings of a melody.
One note whispered after another, unbidden, uncalculated. What the melody was, or from where inside her it came, she did not know. But Emmie didn’t mind that. The melody seemed to rise up from some hidden place, like a forgotten memory. Her voice trilled over the notes, creating a forlorn, pensive tune.
She closed her eyes, and gave herself over to it.
When the last note left her throat, she opened her eyes again, and looked around the room as if she’d woken from a dream. A heavy scent of rose hung in the air, the sandalwood and the vanilla of her candle and salts overpowered by the phantom perfume.
In the corner, the candle flickered… though there was no draft.
Emmie heard herself speak. “Countess?”
The candle flickered in answer.
The countess was here. In this room. Watching her. Emmie should have been frightened. It did occur to her that she would be frightened if she’d met a ghost under any other circumstances. But now, here, like this… she wasn’t.
In fact, she was glad to have met the countess. It felt like an introduction, an intimate first encounter.
Like she had found a secret friend.
It was nice to have a friend.
AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL CREW from the University of Edinburgh had been contracted by Stannisfield Films for the episode of Digging Scotland that would feature Tullybrae House. The day they arrived was the first time Emmie ever encountered the presence of the unknown Highlander.
Not that she knew, at the time, who or what it was she encountered. She knew only that it felt nothing like the countess. And from what Lady Rotherham described, the little girl Clara was mischievous.
This presence, this energy… it certainly didn’t feel mischievous.
That Monday morning Emmie spent an extra half hour getting ready. She chose her outfit, then re-chose it, then re-chose it again. Nothing was right. The ballerina flats were too cutesy. The booties were too cutting-edge. And the sensible nude pumps—well, they were positively matronly when paired with the oversized, retro-style blazer that had been meant to go with the booties. In the end, she settled on a pair of tight-fitting tan slacks, which she tucked into her knee-high riding boots and topped with a soft, white cable-knit sweater. The ensemble made her feel unaccountably underdressed, a state of being which she attempted to offset with her hair.
When she was certain that every wave and curl was exactly where she wanted it, that her outfit was as right as it was going to be, and that her makeup was skillfully invisible, Emmie left the sanctuary of the third floor to face the men and women of Stannisfield Films.
She made it as far as the study, where she spent the rest of the morning hiding like a hermit.
It was there that Lady Rotherham found her, head buried in a chest of old papers, just as the trucks pulled off the main road and onto Tullybrae’s gravel drive.
“There you are,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “What are you doing in here? Come out and meet them. They’re here.”
“Yeah, I… yes. In a minute. Maybe.”
Lady Rotherham tisked. She strode into the room and examined the papers from over Emmie’s shoulder. “God, almighty! That’s my tenth form social studies paper. Throw it away, there’s no value in that.”
“Of course there is,” Emmie insisted, placing a manicured hand protectively over the stapled, yellowing assignment. “Maybe not now, but seal it up in a dry place, leave it for fifty or a hundred years, and scholars are going to be really interested in this.”
“If it’s going to be around in a hundred years, then you can leave it alone for five minutes and come and meet Dr. Iain Northcott. Oh, he’s such a handsome young chap, I could just eat him up!”
“I promise, I’ll come out in just a minute. Five minutes,” she repeated when the lady gave her a stern look.
“All right. Five minutes, and if you’re not out there, I’m coming back to drag you out myself.”
Lady Rotherham trotted off like an over-excited puppy. She wouldn’t give Emmie a second thought once she was in the presence of the famous Dr. Iain Northcott. Emmie was counting on it.
She left the documents in an orderly pile on the floor, and drifted to the oriel windows to watch the spectacle outside.
Lady Rotherham made an odd picture out there. Perfect, but not. Wrong in her perfection. Emmie chewed her lip, considering. The lady’s perfume still hung heavy in the room. It was a cloying scent to begin with, and she’d applied it far too liberally. Her shock of red hair had been curled at the ends so that it swooped back in a hairspray-stiff dovetail at the base of her neck, from which hung an elongated chain of large, irregularly shaped brass pendants. That one, bold item of jewellery was her statement piece, tastefully paired with a demure coral pantsuit which was perfectly tailored to her trim figure. She accentuated that figure with perfect posture. Borne of a lifetime of practice, no doubt. A pair of coral peep-toe slingbacks completed the ensemble.
Lady Rotherham was well put-together. A little too well. Constructed might be a better word for it. The whole effect came across as an older woman who was trying too hard.
Emmie wondered if she gave that impression to anyone. If people thought she tried too hard. Strange that the thought should occur to her now, when it never had before. Perhaps because she’d never seen the same kind of effort on another person until now.
Good God, Emmie hoped she didn’t look constructed.
Next to Lady Rotherham, husband Oliver, Lord Rotherham, looked as though he couldn’t care less who was coming to Tullybrae. Tall and lean, he played the quintessential Englishman in his lightweight sport coat, tan slacks and tweed Gatsby cap.
Emmie hadn’t officially met the Earl of Rotherham yet. Not that she was especially eager to meet him or anything.
“He couldn’t give a fiddler’s fart what I’m doing with the house,” Lady Rotherham had declared earlier. “He’s not so rude under better circumstances. I’ll have to convince him to introduce himself to you at some point.”
Emmie had smiled appreciatively. Inside, she couldn’t give a fiddler’s fart if the Earl of Rotherham introduced himself or not.
Outside, the white, unmarked vans came to a halt, and the crew hopped out. With no more than a nod to the noble family, they set to work unloading, pulling out sound boards, microphones, lights, stands, and electrical cables.
When Dr. Iain Northcott jumped down from the passenger side of the last van, Lady Rotherham danced forward to meet him. Clad in faded jeans, well-worn hiking boots and a dark blue hoodie, the archaeologist-turned-television-personality looked washed out next to his hosts. Emmie wondered if the lady was disappointed by this real-life version of the man. If she was, she hid it well behind a radiant, zoom-whitened smile.
Dr. Iain Northcott looked younger than his forty-odd years. He smiled a boyish smile at Lady Rotherham, and ruffled a hand through his shaggy hair. As they conversed, Lady Rotherham gave the archaeologist an animated overview of the house. Her arms swept wide, her head turned in this direction and that, and she beamed that star-struck flash of teeth so intently, she looked a bit like a snarling dog. Dr. Northcott scanned the horizon, nodding with polite interest—feigned, probably—at every small detail the lady had to give.
“Careful over there,” the earl shouted to one of the cameramen who had ventured away from his comrades. His voice came muffled to Emmie’s ears through the glass.
It was all so unnervingly ridiculous. She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. There was Lady Rotherham, flirting with Iain Northcott, Lord Rotherham barking orders lest a blade of grass be trampled on land that he didn’t even legally own, and these foreigners, these English bastards, romping over Scottish soil as if they owned it…
Emmie stiffened.
Where in the hell had that come from?
As she searched her brain, dredging its depths for the source of that unprecedented flood of animosity, a soft, almost undetectable draft tickled her right side. The hairs on her arm stood up, and a shiver trilled down her spine.
Someone else was in the room with her.
Fear locked her body. Her heart picked up to a gallop. Her skin prickled all along the right side of her face, her neck, her arm, her waist, and right down to the outer edge of her foot.
There was definitely someone there. It was male.
And it was angry.
That anger infiltrated Emmie’s brain, pulled at her thoughts. Changed them.
Her mind, her precious mind, the one thing that belonged to her and her alone… had been violated.
Then in a single breath, it was gone. He was gone. She was alone again.
Her fingers twitched, she shifted her weight. Her breathing hitched as the magnitude of what had happened sank in.
The study closed in around her, stifling and stale. Desperate to escape, she hastened out of the room, and up the main staircase to the servants’ passage on the second floor. The painted eyes of Tullybrae’s nobility followed her, watching silently from their gilt frames.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around herself. A chill which had nothing to do with the cold coursed through her body. She shivered, and rocked herself. The bed creaked rhythmically as she pressed the balls of her feet into the floorboards again and again.
Lady Rotherham had made the ghosts of Tullybrae House sound like old friends. And the countess (if in fact it had been the countess Emmie encountered that night) had been warm, friendly, a comfort.
This… this thing, this person in the study—it was not friendly.
For the first time since coming to Tullybrae, Emmie felt threatened.
EMMIE NEVER TOLD Lamb what happened. She stayed in her bedroom until the crew from Stannisfield Films left the property. When the old butler called up the stairs to let her know that dinner was ready, she feigned a headache and called back that she was going to bed early.
Not long after, he was at her door with a tray. Homemade beef stew and a slice of rye bread with margarine.
Emmie was lying on top of her covers, with her back to the door. The only light in the room was from her bedside lamp. She turned her head when Lamb approached.
“Are you sure it’s just a headache?” he inquired. “You look pale.”
Emmie shoved herself into a sitting position and slumped against the brass rail headboard. “I feel guilty now. If I’d have known you were going to bring something to me, I would have come down.”
“Of course I was going to bring something to you. I couldn’t let you waste away.”
“I don’t need you wearing yourself out waiting on me.”
Lamb moved slowly into the room, and placed the tray on the night stand. “It was no trouble, rea
lly.”
“Yeah, sure. Those stairs with your old knees?”
“Nonsense. Is there anything else I can get for you? A paracetamol perhaps?”
“No, but thanks. I took one already,” she lied.
“All right, then. I’ll leave you be. Good night, dear.”
“G’night, Lamb. Thanks.”
He left, casting a troubled glance over his shoulder before he disappeared down the hallway.
Later that evening he stood at the kitchen counter, wrist-deep in bread dough for next day’s breakfast.
“I don’t like it,” he murmured. “I don’t like it one bit. He shouldn’t have done it.”
“Oh, leave him be,” sighed Mrs. Lamb, who hovered at his right shoulder.
“What right does he have to frighten her like that? What possible reason could he have?”
“He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even know she was there. Don’t be so hard on him— No, no, you’re doing it wrong. Fold the dough, don’t squish it.”
“I am folding it, Mother.”
“You’re no’. You’re squeezing it to pieces. Oh, you are a useless lad.”
Lamb turned sharply to the empty air. “If you think you can do better, then by all means.”
“Don’t get smart,” Mrs. Lamb clucked. “Anyway, he didn’t mean to frighten her. He’s frightened, himself. The young man hasn’t quite accepted his death, you know. Poor thing’s still convinced he shouldn’t have died.”
“What good does that do, to be stewing over something he cannot change?”
There was a sharp tug at Lamb’s ear; he swatted ineffectually.
“Look at you, all high and mighty,” Mrs. Lamb admonished. “Wait until you step over onto our side of the line. You may just start to think a bit differently.”
Lamb went back to his kneading. “I still don’t like it. You saw the state of her. He frightened her something terrible.”
Mrs. Lamb drifted to his other side. “He did do that, aye. Perhaps I should keep an eye on her tonight.”
“I reckon it would be good if you did.” Lamb shaped the dough and pressed it into the waiting pan on the counter top. Once it was the right shape, he covered the dough with a damp cloth, and popped it into the refrigerator to rise slowly overnight.
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 5