The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall

by Catherine Coulter

  He didn’t want her to go back to that house, but then again, she was smart, and she’d used the perfect leverage. He would be there to protect her. He smiled at her. “All right. No, P.C., Barnaby, you will stay here. Mrs. Wolffe and I will be back when we can. P.C., everything will be all right, I promise you. Now take care of Musgrave Jr.” Grayson’s last view of the big calico was on his back, all four paws up, two feet from the sluggishly burning fire.

  Ten minutes later, Miranda, dressed in one of Mary Beth’s gowns, rode beside Grayson back to Wolffe Hall. He wanted to hear the story again, ask her more questions, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why do you believe I’m a man who loves color?”

  “Your books,” she said simply. “Even though you fill them with spirits and frightful and strange creatures from other mysterious realms, you always place them in vibrant settings, colorful settings. Am I wrong?”

  “No, you’re not wrong.”

  “I used to be a woman of color,” she said more to herself than to him, “but it’s been a very long time now.”

  He said, “You will wallow in color again, not too long from now.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  He grinned at her. “It’s all a matter of how you see the world around you, and soon your world will be a very different place.”

  “Does that mean you will fix everything, like P.C. assures me you will?”

  “Yes, I will fix everything.”

  Miranda realized as she looked at him, listened to his calm, certain voice, the awful fear lessened. Would she really see color again?

  They continued toward Wolffe Hall, saying nothing more.

  But when they arrived at the manor, all the windows were dark. Suggs, wearing a sleeping cap and a shiny dressing gown, finally opened the door and gaped.

  Grayson said, “Suggs, I know our unexpected presence alarms you, but everything is all right. We must speak to his lordship.”

  “But, Mr. Sherbrooke, his lordship took himself off to bed nearly an hour ago.”

  Grayson nodded. “You will return to your bed, Suggs,” he said over his shoulder as he and Miranda hurried up the stairs, “we will see if his lordship is asleep.”

  There was no answer to their knock. The door handle didn’t turn. The Great had locked his bedchamber door and wouldn’t come out. He yelled out, “I know it’s you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t want you here. I told you I will deal with this.” A pause, then, “Miranda, when you and Palonia Chiara leave in the morning, do you mind leaving Musgrave Jr. here? No harm will come to him.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “He adores that wretched cat. Musgrave Jr. sleeps with him, you know. Warms his ancient bones, he says.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Miranda showed him to the guest room next to her mama-in-law’s, a good-sized room, but filled with a great deal of pink—wallpaper, counterpane, even the bed was canopied with frothy pink silk. A single big window overlooked the side gardens, framed with pink draperies. Grayson could make out the home woods that stretched out beyond, pines and oaks and larches pressed together in the night. It was a lovely prospect. At least the bed was firm, the way he liked it. Still, Grayson didn’t sleep well, probably because the Great wouldn’t speak to him, he thought when he was coming downstairs the next morning, not because of the pink. He wondered if the Great was still locked in his bedchamber.

  Suggs stood in the entrance hall, dressed immaculately, his bald head shining, staring up at him. He cleared his throat. “I did not tell his lordship that you remained, that you made yourself quite at home in the Pink Room, usually reserved for the fairer sex with questionable taste.”

  “Have you seen Mrs. Wolffe, Suggs?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “Miranda Wolffe.” Of course Suggs knew well which Mrs. Wolffe Grayson was asking about. He was trying to protect the Great, but the time for that was over.

  “I have not yet had that pleasure, sir. But doubtless she will come to breakfast. Follow me, sir.”

  Grayson stepped into the small dining room to see the Great sipping a cup of strong India tea, reading the London Gazette. The day was overcast, on the cool side, but the windows were open, a stiff breeze sending the light draperies blowing into the room. The Great looked up. He didn’t look at all surprised. He waved toward a chair. “Do you know at my age, my boy, if you wake up and discover you are able to take two steps without falling over, you know it will be a good day.

  “I suppose Miranda is with you? And you had the brains to leave Palonia Chiara at Belhaven?”

  Grayson nodded.

  The Great sighed. “Well, sit down, sit down. The two of you shouldn’t have come back. You two should leave immediately after breakfast. Really, sir, this is none of your affair.”

  Grayson pulled out a dining chair, turned it to face the Great, and straddled it. He said, “The Battle of Waterloo will go down in history as a pivotal battle that changed the course of history. It removed Napoleon once and for all, and finally brought peace. The medals are historic as well, Colonel. What makes them extraordinary is that every man who fought at the Battle of Waterloo received one.

  “For the remainder of the man’s life he’d be known as a Waterloo Man, and he would wear his medal with pride and distinction, since his name is impressed around the edge. They are silver, not all that valuable, but if a family were in need, they would pawn it, and so many have.”

  “You know a lot for a man who was a boy in short coats at the time of the Great Battle.”

  “I did a great deal of reading and thinking yesterday, sir.”

  The Great started to eat some kippers, then set down his fork. “Our duke was responsible, of course, for getting the Prince Regent to agree to the expenditure. Wellington wanted to recognize and thank every single man who fought not only at Waterloo, but in all three bloody battles—Quatre Bras, Ligny, and of course Waterloo on the third day, June 18, 1815.”

  “Did you find the medal the spirit demanded you find, sir?”

  The Great gave him a look of acute dislike. “I see the women in my household can’t keep their mouths shut.” He sighed. “Yes, as luck would have it, yes I did. Last week a dozen or so medals arrived from Norwich.

  “Listen, young gentleman, I have decided this is my problem and mine alone. Miranda and Palonia Chiara are leaving this morning.”

  “What about your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Elaine?”

  “What about her? She didn’t dream anything.”

  “No, but she saw the black funnel come into your study and hurl all the Waterloo medals around and go through you. Did it communicate with you, sir? Or couldn’t you understand what it was saying, any more than Miranda and P.C.?”

  The Great leaned back and laced his gnarled hands over his belly. “I will say this again. I will deal with this, sir, not you, an outsider, a man who is too young to know anything.”

  “The funnel—the spirit—it gave you a name, didn’t it?”

  The Great started shaking his head, then stopped. Finally, “Yes, at first it felt it to me, I suppose you could say, as unbelievable as it sounds. But I couldn’t understand what it said. Then, to my astonishment, the funnel, or whatever was in it, screamed right in my face, ‘Find Major Houston.’”

  So that was the whooss.

  “I screamed back that I’d found his medal, that I would return it personally to his family, but that didn’t placate the spirit or whatever strange sort of being or thing it is. In any case, it gave up on me and dreamed himself to Miranda and Palonia Chiara.

  “Don’t you understand? My finding Major Houston’s medal has made no difference. The black funnel, the abyss, as Miranda calls it, attacked them, and only them, to scare them, to make me do what it wanted. But don’t you see, I can’t do what it wants. I can’t find Major Houston.”

  “You believed since you couldn’t find Major Houston, if you found his medal, the spirit would leave you alone?”

  The Great stared some more at the ki
ppers. Finally, he said slowly, “I reasoned there was nothing else he could want. I mean, when he first came to me, he scattered the Waterloo medals everywhere. Rather a huge clue, don’t you think?

  “But the fact is, I really couldn’t believe I actually found Major Houston’s medal. There were so many struck, upward to forty thousand, and yet at last I found the right one and I told him over and over that I had it. Surely the spirit knows it. But it didn’t help.”

  Grayson said, “It seems to me, sir, the spirit was very clear. It wants you to find Major Houston, not his medal.”

  They looked up to see Suggs hovering by the door. He arched a thick white eyebrow.

  Suggs executed a splendid bow. “My lord, like Mr. Sherbrooke, I wish to know what you are supposed to do with the spirit as well since it is my responsibility to keep the house safe. I can assist Mr. Sherbrooke, your lordship. None of us wish Mrs. Wolffe and Miss P.C. to leave. And Musgrave Jr., of course. You know too that Barnaby would go with them. Our family would be broken up. It would be a disaster, my lord.”

  Miranda appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, her glasses sliding down her nose, her hair back in its thick braid, wearing a yellow gown, so old it was faded nearly to white.

  “Come in and eat your breakfast, Miranda,” the Great said. “How can Mr. Sherbrooke possibly want to marry you when you’re so thin?”

  Grayson stood frozen in place, his mouth open, but Miranda was made of stern stuff. She leaned forward, planting her hands on the table. “I’m thin because you brought this malignant spirit into the house, sir. Who could eat with gusto when a black funnel could whirl in at any moment and go into you? Or make the house shake off its foundation and open up a black hole to swallow P.C. and me?

  “Sir, listen to me. No more running away, locking yourself in your bedroom, no more of your clever distractions. I wish to hear the answer as well as Suggs. This is our home. We have the right to know. Why does the spirit want you to find this Major Houston? As luck would have it, you did find the medal, amazing since there were so many made. You had to know you’d have a better chance of finding the man.”

  The Great chewed on his knuckles, then sighed. “It’s been so many years. I suppose it really doesn’t matter any longer. Very well, Miranda, sit down. Suggs, come closer.”

  The Great waited until Suggs was standing at the other end of the dining table, tall, shoulders back, like one of the Great’s soldiers back in the old days.

  Grayson said, “Sir, I realize you believe you cannot find Major Houston because he died at Waterloo.”

  That brought Miranda to her feet. “Major Houston is dead? But that makes no sense, Grayson, why would the spirit of a dead man come to the Great and demand that he find him? He’s dead, so that’s impossible. The black funnel hurled all the medals into the air. That’s why you believed Major Houston wanted his medal returned to his family, isn’t it, sir?”

  Before the Great could respond, Grayson raised a hand. “Sir, what I do not understand, however, is why you wouldn’t want to tell Mrs. Wolffe, all of us, immediately. Why the secrecy?”

  The Great looked from face to face, then down at the congealed eggs on his plate. “Very well, I will tell you. Major Houston served under me in the Third Battalion, Fourteenth Regiment of Foot. He saved my life, slammed the sword out of the French soldier’s hand, knocked him off his horse. I had no time to thank him, and he was gone again. An hour later, I was in the middle of the bloodbath, fighting two French infantrymen, when I sensed another coming up behind me. I turned and slashed out with my sword, killed him. Then I realized it was Major Houston coming to help me and I’d killed him. I’d killed the man who’d saved my life. When I realized he wasn’t an enemy soldier and I’d killed my own man, I nearly fell apart, but you see, my men needed me.

  “There was no choice but to leave him lying there since there were more French infantry surrounding me. On and on it went, until finally, it was over and I still lived, and I stood in that field of blood holding my arm.” He laughed, shaking his head. “All the dead men surrounding me, the wounded, and I had only a minor slash in my forearm. I began searching for Major Houston, but a messenger came upon me, told me the duke wanted me to come to him, and so I had no choice but to leave the field.

  “The first chance I got, I went back to search more for Major Houston, but I couldn’t find his body. There were so many bodies, so many men whose lives were gone. Simply gone.”

  There was silence in the breakfast room.

  “This is difficult, Miranda—this is why I didn’t want to tell you. It is my guilt to bear because I killed my own man, the man who saved my life. I killed Major Houston.

  “After I returned to England, I traveled to Sussex to meet the major’s family—his father and mother, his younger sister. They were devastated, of course. I expressed my gratitude at their son’s bravery and my condolences. I told them he had saved my life. But in the end, I was a coward. I did not tell them I had killed their son. Can you imagine the horror they would feel?

  “I spoke to the duke when I found out about the medals, and asked him if I could myself present the major’s medal to his family, and he agreed. But there was some sort of mistake and his medal never got to me. I wrote the family, asked them if they’d received his medal. They said they hadn’t.

  “I suppose I put it out of my mind—there was so much to be done here at Wolffe Hall since I had been absent far too long.

  “Major Houston’s mother wrote me three years ago to tell me her husband, Major Houston’s father, had died. It was about that time I learned that many Waterloo medals had been pawned and sold, so I began collecting all the medals I could find, polishing them and returning them, to expiate my guilt, that was certainly part of it. I was also hoping to find the major’s medal for his mother and sister, to honor him, and of course, praying that finding his medal and returning it would also help lessen my guilt.

  “I believe it is Major Houston’s spirit that has come to me. He must have realized I was searching for his medal—I can’t imagine how—I’ve never believed in such things as spirits and ghosts—and that’s when the funnel came into me. I swear, after all the indistinct mumbling, he shouted right in my face, ‘Find Major Houston!‘ Of course I assumed the spirit meant he wanted me to find Major Houston’s medal and that’s why it hurled all the medals around the library.

  “Then a miracle happened. I found the medal—I actually found it in a pile Max had purchased from a pawn shop in a small town in Sussex. I was pleased because at least I could do something. I was ready to return it to his family, but he came to me again, more mumbling, more whirling around me, then shouted in my face, ‘Find Major Houston!‘ and I shouted back that there was no question of finding the major, he was long dead, bones and dust now, but I had found his medal and I would take it to his family. I even called the spirit Major Houston. I told him he could stop his spirit visitations, but he didn’t stop.” The Great looked at each of them again. “There, you now know my awful secret. I carry the guilt around on my shoulders every single day. Yes, I am convinced the spirit is Major Houston—there can be no other.

  “But I cannot understand why he continues with this harassment and why he keeps telling me to find him! It makes no sense. It’s got to be about his medal. What I do not understand is that although Major Houston was a very young man, he was honorable, straight-thinking, he was brave. He wouldn’t have ever threatened another, and in such a horrific manner.”

  “Last night, he screamed at you again?” Miranda asked.

  The Great nodded. “I kept reassuring him, swore to him yet again that I would take the medal to his family.” The Great fell silent and stared down at his plate. “There, I have told you the lot of it. There is no more.” He looked suddenly tired, at the end of his tether. “It is all my fault. I killed him and now I must pay. With my life? I suppose it is fair. After all, I have had more years given me than that poor young man did. But it is not right that I pay with
your lives as well.

  “Miranda, I do not know what will happen now, so tomorrow morning I believe it best that you take Palonia Chiara and leave this place. I cannot and will not take a chance with your safety.” He turned to Grayson. “I ask that you take my granddaughter-in-law and Palonia Chiara to Belhaven tonight and protect them. I don’t wish any harm to come to them.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Grayson nodded. “Of course. But, sir, first I would appreciate your telling me more about the major’s family.”

  The Great raised an eyebrow, but he said readily enough, “His father was the vicar in the town of Witchery-Tyne. Evarard Houston was his name, serving for more than thirty years. I have kept in touch with Mrs. Houston, but I have not informed her of her dead son’s visits to me, his attacks on Miranda and Palonia Chiara. I doubt they would believe me, in any case.”

  “And Major Houston?”

  “Major Houston’s first name was Charles, and he was made a major at the age of twenty at the battle of Badajoz for his outstanding bravery. When he died at Waterloo, he was only twenty-three. He was a young man to admire, to trust.

  “But now his spirit—he’s changed, he’s different, he has turned spiteful and violent. As I told you, he wasn’t like that in life.”

  Grayson said, “Sir, why did the major’s spirit wait nearly twenty-five years to come to you?”

  “I have wondered the same thing, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have no answer. You say, sir, you know about otherworldly beings, so how do you explain what his spirit is now doing? Why he has changed so much?”

  Grayson said, “There is only one logical conclusion, sir. Major Houston isn’t dead. It isn’t his spirit.”

  The house shuddered.

  Miranda jumped to her feet. “Who are you?”

  There was one more shudder, then it stopped. Everything was quiet.