“Especially if he’d buried the lover nearby,” Edwina said, as Lizzie walked into the room, yawning and brandishing a hairbrush. “No murderer worth his salt would leave a body for the crows, however well that may work in romance.”
“That’s why the treasure hunters dug in the cellars,” Lizzie said, attacking her unkempt hair. “Some days, Papa digs there, too.”
“In the hope of finding some old bones?” Edwina suppressed a shudder. She stood and took the brush from Lizzie. “Let me do that.”
“Yes, because Sir Joshua may have hidden the necklace with the lover’s body,” Lizzie said.
“More to the point,” Edwina said, “why would the ghost let you find it? She has guarded it for two hundred years.”
“She will let Papa find it,” John said with dogged certainty.
“Because Papa is pure of heart,” Lizzie said. “He doesn’t want the necklace for material reasons.”
“No?” Immediately, she regretted her tone. Even if she doubted Richard’s motives, she shouldn’t show it in front of his children. “Then why?”
Coldly, Richard said, “Because according to the legend, there is only one way to get rid of the ghost, and that is to give the necklace to its rightful owner.”
“The mistress of Ballister Grange,” Lizzie said.
“But there is no mistress of Ballister Grange,” Edwina said.
“Not at the moment,” Richard said. “And I don’t think many women would want the position under the current circumstances, so I plan to strike a bargain with the lady ghost. If she releases the necklace to me and ceases to haunt the Grange, I promise to marry again and bestow the necklace upon my wife.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Richard knew his pact with the ghost was one-sided and scarcely to be counted on, but what choice was there? As long as John believed it would work, Richard would move heaven and earth to find the necklace and then a wife. If he didn’t find the necklace, he would purchase one and pretend to find it. Whatever it took to save his son’s sanity and hopefully his life as well, he would do.
“I see,” Edwina said, surprising him; he’d feared she would scoff at the absurdity of the pact. She couldn’t be expected to understand the futility of trying to convince a Ballister not to believe in ghosts. Instead she said, “A present-day Lady Ballister is the closest you can get to a rightful owner.”
“She will be the rightful owner by tradition, if not in law,” Richard said. “The necklace, if it hadn’t disappeared, would have passed from one Lady Ballister to another until the present day.”
Edwina opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it firmly and returned to coaxing the snarls out of Lizzie’s hair—patiently, in a motherly sort of way. Not as his wife had done, although that had also been motherly…
“What a happy day that will be,” Mrs. Cropper said. “And soon.”
He turned to her, startled out of his reverie. “I beg your pardon?”
“When you marry again, Sir Richard.”
He didn’t suppose it would be happy. He didn’t want to remarry, nor did he wish to discuss it in front of Edwina. “I surely hope so, Mrs. Cropper. Do I smell coffee?”
“Aye, that you do, sir.” She poured coffee for him, but that didn’t stop her from talking. “There’s that pretty Miss Wicket, the vicar’s daughter in the next parish—she’s a northerner born and bred, so she’d do fine here. Or there’s Lord Tankhurst’s eldest—a little past her prime, but a handsome lady all the same. Or there’s―”
“Enough, Mrs. Cropper,” he said.
“Lord knows you’ll have to be quick about it,” Mrs. Cropper went on. “There’ll be no time to waste once you find that necklace.” Her gaze flicked questioningly to Edwina and back. Fortunately, Edwina’s eyes were on her coffee cup. He didn’t blame the old woman for seeing Edwina as a viable option—pretty, well-bred, and more to the point, already here. A pity, but it was impossible.
“Thank you, but I’ll find my own wife,” he said.
“Once you get rid of the ghost, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Edwina said tartly. What was that tone of voice supposed to mean? Did it even matter? He’d found a tolerable wife last time in spite of the stinging blow of Edwina’s marriage. He’d calmed himself enough to make a practical choice.
Damn it, he should pay more attention to Mrs. Cropper’s suggestions. He should even make a point of getting to know the young ladies in question, because if he found the necklace before Christmas, he would be wise to marry in a hurry.
He didn’t want to think about what might happen if he didn’t find it before Christmas.
“Pass me that ribbon, Lizzie,” Edwina said. Already, his daughter’s hair was much tidier. With a few deft movements, Edwina tied the girl’s hair becomingly back from her face. Lizzie wouldn’t let Mrs. Cropper touch her because her hands smelled of onions, and with no maids and no governess, she’d had to resort to Richard—who was all thumbs when it came to arranging hair—or do her own hair, which, however well-brushed in the morning, was always a mass of tangles by evening.
Edwina, he supposed, was expert at doing hair; she’d managed to tame her own curls. A shame, because their natural unruliness suited her passionate nature…
He shouldn’t allow such memories to surface. Her hair was tightly bound at the moment, not a stray wisp escaping. Longing tugged at him—longing to take her cheek in his hand, to caress and lick her ear, then sneak to the ribbon that held her curls in check, and…
She colored up, and he tore his eyes from her. He poured cream in his coffee and set the memories and desires firmly aside. “Did you sleep well last night, Mrs. White?”
“Excellently, thank you,” she said.
“No nightmarish awakenings? No ghostly voices?”
~ * ~
That sarcastic voice again. “Of course not,” Edwina retorted, and then remembered waking to that strange voice and a tug on her wrist. But that was no ghost, merely a dream. She must have twisted her wrist in her sleep.
Still, she might have thought before speaking if she hadn’t seen the heat in Richard’s eyes, evoking an answering heat within her, resurrecting a memory she should suppress forever. Oh, no—surely that wasn’t why he had paid her so much in advance?
“All the other governesses did,” Lizzie said. “They woke all of a sudden, hearing frightening voices, and it got worse every day.”
“Fraidy-cats,” John said. “That’s why they left.”
“It will take a lot more than ghostly voices to frighten me,” Edwina said. Such as Richard’s entirely unacceptable desires and her equally appalling response.
No, his lips were pressed tight together—not the lips of a man contemplating kisses. She sighed with what should be relief but wasn’t entirely. Richard kissed with enthralling heat and passion, unlike Harold, whom she could only describe as dry, and in any event he had stopped kissing her after a year or so of marriage. She was rather kiss-starved by now, not that she’d thought much about it lately…
She redirected her mind to more important matters. “Surely not all of them had such experiences.”
“Every single one,” Richard said.
“How odd,” Edwina said. “Not everyone responds to suggestions of hauntings the same way.”
“The haunting is not a suggestion.” John narrowed his eyes at her, not quite as charming as before, reminding her of his father. “It’s a fact.”
Edwina pondered reprimanding him and decided against it. Something strange was going on here, and until she knew what it was, she must hold her tongue. “What did the voices say?”
Richard’s voice was wry. “By what they told me—and they were each and every one verging on hysterical—they were startled out of deep sleep, their hearts pounding in their chaste bosoms, to pitiful cries for help.”
All of which applied to Edwina, except that the cry she’d heard wasn’t pitiful—demanding, rather—and her bosom wasn’t chaste, as he well knew. “To help the ghost
?”
Richard nodded. “One assumes so.”
“With what?”
“That we don’t know, since none of them had the courage to stay and find out. One of them, who remained a little longer than the others, said the ghost told her she was no longer welcome and almost pushed her out of the bed.”
“How disconcerting,” Edwina said, once again stifling the urge to scoff. We must save him, had said the voice she’d heard last night. She’d thought no more about it at the time, and if it was the ghost speaking (which Edwina refused to believe), surely she merely wanted to save her murdered lover, who was long past any help.
After breakfast, the children took Edwina up to the schoolroom, where they spent the morning putting things in order and starting in on their lessons. Both children politely did their work, but John was by far the more earnest scholar—too much so, in Edwina’s opinion. After he’d finished showing her how proficient he was in Latin, he jumped up, ready to hurry off to the vicar. “We shall be able to spend twice the time on Greek, now that he needn’t help me with Latin.”
“Surely there’s no rush,” Edwina said. “You’re far ahead of most students your age, in Latin at least.”
“Oh, but there is a rush,” he said. “I don’t know how much time I may have.”
“You have plenty of time,” she said. “A lifetime for learning.”
“Not likely,” he said with an impatient shake of the head. Before she could ask what he meant, he dashed out the door.
She let him go and turned to Lizzie, who after finishing her lessons was reading a novel. “What was that all about?”
Lizzie hunched a shoulder and buried her nose in the book. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Why shouldn’t he have plenty of time to learn? Is he ill?”
Again, Lizzie shrugged. “He has a morbid nature, that’s all.”
“That’s terrible in one so young. Perhaps he should talk to the vicar about it.”
Lizzie raised her eyes at last, scowling. “No, the vicar will only make things worse. No one can help.”
“Come now, Lizzie. There’s clearly a problem, and something must be done.”
“Nothing will work except getting rid of the―” She stopped on a gasp.
“Rid of what?”
Tears welled up in the corners of Lizzie’s eyes. “John doesn’t want it discussed, and Papa says we should honor that.”
“The ghost? We’ve all been discussing that.”
Lizzie shook her head, stifling a sob as tears trickled down her cheeks. Edwina found a handkerchief in her reticule and handed it to the girl. “Don’t cry, Lizzie. I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked you.”
“Indeed you shouldn’t,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Mrs. White, I see I have no choice but to speak with you.” He paused. “Privately. Run along, Lizzie, and see if Mrs. Cropper needs your help.”
“Papa, please don’t be vexed with Mrs. White,” Lizzie whispered, but when her father merely gave her a stern look, she hurried from the room.
“She was doing her best to obey you,” Edwina said, indignant. “Don’t blame her for my curiosity.”
“I shan’t,” he said, waiting while his daughter’s footsteps receded down the corridor. He shut the door and set his back to it. “I thought we might part ways before I was obliged to explain, but…”
Explain what? Her heart sank. She wasn’t frightened like the night before; she had the fifty pounds, after all, which would keep her from starving for a good while. But she didn’t want to leave the Grange so soon. Not so close to Christmas, in a household with children she liked, children who needed her.
Still, it was his house and his children, and she had no say in the matter. She steeled herself to be sent packing.
His eyes were on the floor, as if he was trying to decide what to say. How difficult could it be?
Mrs. White, I find that I no longer need your services.
He raised his eyes, and his lips twisted a little as he spoke. “I had forgotten your stubborn nature.”
Regretfully, she admitted, “Yes, it is one of my great failings as a governess. I simply cannot back down with parents who willfully spoil their children.” She put up a hand. “Not yours, Sir Richard. I was not trying to butter you up yesterday. What I said about John and Lizzie was…was heartfelt.” Why must her voice tremble and tears like the echoes of Lizzie’s sting behind her eyes? Just get on with it, she thought miserably. Send me away.
“I realize that my reaction was unwarranted,” he said.
She was so surprised that she couldn’t find a word to say.
“If you intend to stay at the Grange, I shall have to tell you the whole story—you will learn it from the villagers if not from me―but if you mean to leave, there is no point in my doing so. Therefore, I must ask—what are your plans?”
Her mouth dropped open. “My plans?”
“Yes, Edwina, your plans. Last night I gave you the means to leave anytime you wish, which I expected would be immediately. Do you intend to stay here as governess in spite of the, er, history between us, which seems to be a sticking point? We got off to a bad start yesterday, but I am prepared to let bygones be bygones.”
“You will let bygones be bygones? How dare you?”
“If you are prepared to do the same,” he retorted. “Must you take umbrage at everything I say? I don’t know why you’re so damned incensed with me, but nor do I care. All I want to know is whether we are prepared to put up with one another for the sake of the children. I shall do my part, but I must have some assurance that you are willing to make a commitment as well.”
“You want to know if I can make a commitment?” she cried, more furious by the second.
“I certainly know I can,” he said. “Your ability is the one in question.”
“You are the most odious, insulting person I have ever met!”
“The feeling is mutual, believe me.” Some emotion crossed his face, quickly suppressed, and she thought she knew what it was. He, like she, was remembering a day in London almost twelve years ago. He’d been released from the Fleet, since presumably one of his relatives—the previous Sir Richard, perhaps—had paid his debt. Edwina was walking in the park with her new husband, whilst Richard was on the arm of a woman she’d never met. It hadn’t taken her long to find out—an American woman, a minor heiress like Edwina, who had come to London for the season. If she’d needed proof that Richard was indeed a fortune hunter, here it was.
Their eyes had met for one long, horrid moment—her eyes and Richard’s, then hers and the woman’s. Then Richard had sneered and pointedly steered his fair companion away.
He turned away now as well and flung open the door. “Come, it’s a sunny day and almost pleasant outdoors, a rare occurrence at this time of year. I want to show you something in the garden.”
~ * ~
Richard couldn’t help but watch as Edwina gathered herself and trod down the passage to her bedchamber, nose in the air again. The memory of better times overwhelmed him with foolish nostalgia. He liked her feisty nature and had looked forward to marital tussles as the precursor to intense, satisfying lovemaking. There didn’t seem much hope of any kind of satisfaction between them now, physical or emotional.
Good God, was some idiotic part of him hoping for just that? He might blame his cock’s response as a natural phenomenon, but his heart should know better. He’d paid her hoping she would simply leave, but seemingly she didn’t intend to do so.
Perhaps, if she did indeed stay a while, they would hash the past out between them and come to some sort of truce. She might even become a friend of sorts—he could certainly use someone to talk to, to confide in—but that was probably too much to hope for. They seemed to be blaming one another for what had happened twelve years ago, which made no sense to him, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with it now. His entire being was—must be—concentrated on saving his son.
He went downstairs to reassure
Lizzie, who was in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver. “I can’t promise that Mrs. White will stay, but I’m not planning to dismiss her,” he said.
“Shall I talk to her, Papa? Perhaps I can convince her. She’s not fearful like the others.”
Not of ghosts, he thought. But of his unkindness, of his power to harm her—yes, she had definitely been fearful last night. He’d done what he could to dispel that. “No, she has a great deal of spirit, hasn’t she? One can’t help but like that about her.”
His daughter smiled tremulously and got on with painstakingly cleaning the tines of a fork.
He went outdoors, and soon Edwina joined him in the weed-choked mess of the knot garden. The holly hedge surrounding it was overgrown, and the stone bench and other garden ornaments could only be described as dreary. He picked a sprig of rosemary and offered it to her.
~ * ~
Startled, Edwina took the sprig and bit off one needle, savoring its sharp flavor. He strolled away, making it clear the offering meant nothing―definitely not rosemary for remembrance of the kisses with which they had mended their disputes in the past. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want to dispute with him! And although she knew her quick temper to be a worse failing than her stubbornness, she had a right to her indignation. No, her downright hurt and…
It didn’t matter. To him the past was of no account—a nuisance to be acknowledged and then forgotten. His entire concentration was on his children, and rightly so. On that at least they could agree.
Edwina nibbled on the rosemary and wandered slowly in Richard’s wake. The four squares of the knot garden were divided by pathways. Each square had a different knot design, and at the center of each knot stood a stone fixture: in one a birdbath, in another a sundial, in a third a plinth with a flowerpot, and in the fourth—the only one with a proper path to the center―an elaborate stone bench. “The design for this garden is quite old,” she said. “Was it planted at the time the house was built?”
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