“Maybe that’s what she meant!” Edwina said. “I’ll bet that’s why she dropped the lantern—to tell you to leave the cellar.”
He huffed. “That makes very little sense. I wouldn’t leave the cellar for such a stupid reason. Only a woman would come up with something like that.”
“The ghost is a woman,” Edwina said through clenched teeth.
He laughed, and the weariness dissipated—but only for a second. “So she is. If that’s what she wanted, she has her way. More tea?”
CHAPTER NINE
Richard feared that he was beginning to think like a woman. Not about falling lanterns, of course, but in a complicated way. Usually, he knew what he wanted and persevered until he got it. When it came to Edwina, he couldn’t think straight.
He wanted to bed her—of course. Marry her? He didn’t know. He’d been through one uneasy marriage and couldn’t stomach another. He didn’t quite trust Edwina; didn’t want to have to trust her, particularly over this business of the ghost. He couldn’t afford to let himself be led about by his cock, which meant he dare not agree wholeheartedly with her, dare not let her think she was succeeding, even if she wasn’t trying to succeed in anything but helping out. But what if she wasn’t lying? What if she was entirely sincere and trustworthy and as lovable as he wanted her to be? What if he was destroying his chances by treating her with circumspection?
Far too complicated, but he would have to make up his mind about her soon.
But not yet. Bedding her would mean marrying her, so he couldn’t bed her, and meanwhile she sat across from him, naked under very little clothing, smelling of sleep and woman, and exhausted and dispirited though he was, his cock couldn’t ignore her.
He refilled both their cups, and for a while longer they sat in silence. He felt her surreptitious glances but didn’t return them. At last he said, “Time to go to bed.” He felt himself reddening and gave thanks for the darkness. “Which reminds me, with regard to our plans for Christmas, I think you should visit Miss Bickford, the vicar’s sister, tomorrow. She knows all the villagers and will introduce you to everyone.”
~ * ~
In what possible way did going to bed remind him of the vicar’s sister? Edwina wondered as she returned to her chamber. Was Miss Bickford an attractive woman? She would have to be quite a bit younger than the vicar to be a prospect for marriage.
Edwina curled up under the covers and tried not to think about Miss Bickford. Tried not to think about how Richard didn’t trust her, about how his eyes had burned with passion twelve years ago and now gazed upon her with indifference. Perhaps, once they had found the necklace, he would warm toward her again…if he hadn’t married Miss Bickford or some other lady in the vicinity…if it wasn’t already too late…
~ * ~
What is wrong with you modern women? the ghost asked irritably. He’s just a man. Use your woman’s wiles. Lead him by his cock.
Edwina groaned into wakefulness, but before she could frame a question, the ghost was gone. Damn, thought Edwina. She would have to learn how to keep herself in that semi-awake state if she wanted to get more information from the ghost, who was beginning to remind her of her Aunt Jane, the most forthright of her relatives, unfortunately deceased. Not that Aunt Jane would have put it quite as crudely as the ghost, but she had never stinted on advice.
Perhaps this particular advice was worth following. It didn’t matter whether the ghost was reprimanding Edwina for not flirting with Richard—which was well-nigh impossible at the moment—or preparing her for a possible rival in Miss Bickford. Why shouldn’t she at least make herself a little more attractive?
She was sick and tired of trying to conceal her natural good looks. Richard had encouraged her to make herself some clothing, so he had no cause for complaint if she did exactly that. She would pay him out of her fifty pounds. She might even find fabric to make a new wrapper, in case of any further trysts in the small hours.
That wasn’t a tryst. It wasn’t the ghost speaking, but rather her own commonsense. That conversation in the kitchen had been as far from a tryst as possible for a woman in her nightclothes and a good-looking man who had once been her lover. There was little likelihood of dalliance, now or in the future, with Richard Ballister.
She got out of bed, yawning, and opened the curtains upon a grey morning. She eyed herself in the mirror. She couldn’t do anything about the bruise, which had developed into an ugly purplish splotch on her cheek, and it would take time to make new gowns, but she could certainly dress her hair more becomingly. She let some of her curls frame her face, whilst tying the rest back with her only colorful ribbon—a red one. Pleased with the effect, she went down to breakfast.
“Oh, your hair is so pretty this morning!” Lizzie cried.
Edwina smiled and thanked her, carefully avoiding Richard’s eye but catching John’s instead as he looked up from his primer. “Mrs. White is pretty whatever she does with her hair.” The boy grinned; he would be a great charmer when he grew up.
He would grow to manhood. Edwina had made up her mind to that.
Richard chuckled. “True, but I think we all prefer this way of dressing your hair, Mrs. White.” Heavens, he seemed almost friendly this morning.
“Can you make my hair look like that?” Lizzie asked.
“Not quite,” Edwina said, glad of the change of subject. “Yours will look better because it’s not as uncontrollably curly as mine.”
“We shall order green ribbons,” Lizzie said, “to go with my new green gown. I want my hair to look like that for the Christmas feast. That red ribbon is perfect for you, Mrs. White! I knew red would become you. You must make a red gown to go with your ribbon.”
“Governesses don’t wear red gowns,” Edwina reminded Lizzie gently, whilst yearning tugged at her. Oh, to dress in festive crimson like the young, passionate Edwina who had once captured Richard Ballister’s heart.
Oh, what was she thinking? The past was gone and best forgotten; the last thing she needed to do was revive it with a crimson gown. “I shall call on Miss Bickford this morning. Do you wish to come with me, or shall I leave you some lessons and go on my own?”
Lizzie made a face. “Miss Bickford always makes me recite, so I shall stay here.”
The vicar’s sister proved to be an elderly lady with a cheerful mien and even less tact than her brother. “Oh, you are pretty, just as James—my brother, you know—said. That will certainly set tongues wagging, but what choice does poor Sir Richard have? I dare swear he doesn’t object at all. More likely he’s giving thanks for his good fortune.”
Heavens, thought Edwina, did she just wink at me?
“But what a dreadful bruise on your cheek!” the lady went on. “How ever did that happen?”
Edwina hesitated, then said, “Tell me, Miss Bickford, do you believe in ghosts—specifically, the ghost of Lady Ballister?”
“Of course I do,” she said, her rheumy eyes eager. “More important, do you?”
“A few days ago, I did not,” Edwina said, “but the ghost awakened me yesterday morning with a slap—hence this bruise.”
“Oh, excellent. Not the bruise, my dear, but that you now believe in her. I’m sure the ghostly Lady Ballister appreciates that. How vexing to be ignored, don’t you think? Worse than ignored, if people don’t even believe one exists. If I die before my brother—which is likely in the course of nature—I hope I shall be permitted to haunt the vicarage. Just to tease him a little, you know.”
Edwina decided she liked the vicar’s sister very much.
“I wonder, though,” Miss Bickford went on, “are ghosts allowed to haunt vicarages? It might be considered sacrilegious.”
“In that case, your brother will be obliged to exorcise you,” Edwina said.
Miss Bickford broke into peals of laughter. “I see we shall get along very well. I hope you stay in our village a long, long time.”
“I hope so, too,” Edwina said, adding immediately, “John and Lizzie
are far more charming and well-behaved than the other children I have taught.” Perhaps that would diffuse any suspicions that Edwina had designs upon Sir Richard. Seeing the twinkle in Miss Bickford’s eye, she doubted it. Well, they would find out soon enough when Edwina left in the New Year—although they would probably think he had sent her packing. Mentally, she threw up her hands. None of this was of any consequence. She intended to make the most of the Christmas festivities, and the best way to do that was to forget about the future for now.
Upon hearing Edwina’s errand, Miss Bickford entered with great enthusiasm into the plan. She donned her walking shoes and a warm cloak. They set out immediately to call on several of the villagers and made arrangements to visit more on the morrow.
There followed several days of frenetic activity—designing and cutting clothing and bringing it to the seamstress, meeting with all the villagers, and sending for the necessary supplies. The seamstress was competent. The villagers as a whole were simple, superstitious people, but kind-hearted and welcoming. If it hadn’t been for the sword of Damocles hanging over John’s head, the preparations would have been great fun.
Edwina kept one gown secret and sewed it herself at night—a crimson one. How foolish to dwell on memories of that waltz so long ago, but she couldn’t help herself. Most likely she wouldn’t even wear it come Christmas Day. She didn’t wish to give the wrong impression to Richard or to the village as a whole. Even if she could overcome her scruples, she didn’t think she could wear anything so truly festive unless the ruby necklace was found.
Despite daily vigilance, despite examining every item in the house with a questioning eye, she came no closer to finding the necklace, and the ghost, whose snippets of information she had come to hope for, only muttered nightly about women’s wiles, advised Edwina to look about herself, and warned more and more urgently about time running out. Ten more days, eight, seven, five…
Edwina recognized the need for haste, but it wasn’t the right time for woman’s wiles, what with Richard searching day and night, growing ever more tense and hollow-eyed. Not that she didn’t want him; in unguarded moments, she eyed him and ached with longing. In bed at night, in darkness and solitude, she replayed the waltz in her mind, recalling the heady excitement of his closeness. She envisioned being swept away to a bedchamber, imagined his lips and hands on her bare skin and his shaft moving inside her.
And then rolled over and banished these useless desires. How unworthy to become consumed with lust at such a time! She thrust her lecherous thoughts away and swore to look about her even harder.
Three days before Christmas, she stood before the portrait of Sir Joshua, trying to read those hard, calculating eyes. John came up beside her. “Horrid, isn’t he? Sometimes I look at him and try to be him in my mind. When he killed the lover, how did he decide where to put the body and the necklace so that no one would ever find them?”
Edwina turned to the boy. “How, indeed?”
“The ghost doesn’t like me when I try to think like Sir Joshua, but how else am I to figure out where the necklace is?” He smirked. “Lizzie told me she speaks to you. Well, she speaks to me, too. I haven’t told Papa because he already thinks I am weak-minded, which is shameful for a boy.”
“Did he say that?” Edwina demanded, outraged.
“No, but that’s what he believes. Don’t tell him I told you the ghost talks to me.”
“Very well, I shan’t, but you’re entirely wrong about what he thinks. He is full of admiration for your courage.”
One side of John’s mouth quirked up. “Do you really think so? I was afraid that since he already sees me as weak, he might think me mad if I told him I can hear the ghost speak. She says I am a lovely, studious boy.” He rolled his eyes. His assumption of nonchalance made Edwina’s insides churn. “She doesn’t want me to die young, but she also says being dead isn’t so very bad, although it’s no fun being stuck as a ghost. But none of the other firstborns haunt the Grange, so I’m not worried about that.”
Edwina tried to contain her dismay. “I wish you didn’t have to worry at all.”
John grimaced. “Papa looks awfully tired. If I do die soon, I want you to take good care of him and Lizzie.”
“I shall,” Edwina said without thinking, and then decided not to contemplate the ramifications of this rash promise. “But I would rather make sure you live to old age.”
John left, and she continued around the portrait gallery, examining the oldest paintings for clues, and returned at last to Sir Joshua. “Where did you hide it, you evil man?”
Needless to say, Sir Joshua stood proud, aloof and silent, with the knot garden behind him on the one hand and fields stretching away on the other. His second wife, whose placid vapidity probably suited Sir Joshua down to the ground, posed before the same backdrop. She wouldn’t know the answer, even if Edwina could ask her.
Oh, how ridiculous. Edwina had already noticed that different artists had painted the two portraits—Sir Joshua’s no doubt in the lifetime of his first wife, whose portrait he had probably destroyed. Upon close inspection, however, she realized that an alteration had been made in his portrait. Judging by the differences in style, the second artist had painted over the one square of the knot garden which had changed between one wife and the next. Now both paintings showed the bench with the monument to Sir Joshua’s firstborn son.
While she understood the motivation for the memorial, the new version of that square didn’t go at all well with the rest of the garden. It destroyed the integrity of both the garden as a whole and the knot design in that particular square.
She sighed. What a foolish alteration in both garden and painting, but hardly surprising. “You’ll never relent, will you?” she asked his portrait. “I’m glad you’re not the one haunting the Grange. At least your first wife is trying to mend matters.”
CHAPTER TEN
Christmas Eve, and still nothing. Richard dragged himself to his bedchamber in despair. He’d never felt so proud of his young son, who had comforted his weeping sister and done his best to reassure her that the curse need not take effect this Christmas or for many more years to come. Richard had found himself holding back tears at John’s courageous display of unconcern.
Both children had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep—perhaps John’s last.
Richard shucked his coat and shirt and sat on the bed to pull off his stockings. “I’m so tired, Lady Ballister,” he told the darkness. “I’ve tried my damnedest. John doesn’t deserve this fate. Lizzie doesn’t deserve to lose her brother. And Edwina—dear Edwina is working herself to the bone to help my family. She has not only searched everywhere, but she delivered Christmas baskets to all the villagers. The house is decorated with holly and ivy, evergreens and mistletoe. The villagers love her. My children adore her. You approve of her too, don’t you?” No response, but he didn’t need one. “She deserves the security of a home and family, and I can give that to her. Even though she doesn’t love me, even though it will be a marriage as uncomfortable as my first, I understand what must be done. I’ll marry her for her own sake as well as to save my son.”
Still the darkness didn’t answer—no surprise. Edwina had given no indication that she thought of marriage. Her demeanor remained entirely proper and respectful toward him. She saved her true warmth for his children and her formidable housewifely talents for the entire village. She’d consented to have a gown made of the dark blue wool, but that was no more than a valued servant might expect at Christmastide. If he found the necklace, she might agree to marry him for John’s sake. Even without love, surely marriage to him was preferable to a life of drudgery.
He put his head in his hands. “What’s the use if we can’t find the damned necklace?” Yes, they would celebrate Christmas—but without any true Christmas cheer.
A weight seemed to have settled over the whole house, heavy and ominous, that even the Christmas greenery couldn’t dispel. “I want some happiness for my family,”
Richard said. “Some light. It’s Christmastide, for God’s sake.”
He rose, lit a whole branch of candles, and set them on the mantel. They sent a splash of light upward, illuminating the strapwork on the overmantel, but did little to dispel the gloom in the rest of the room and in his heart. He longed for love, for comfort, for…
He raised his fist to the unresponsive ghost. “Since you’re so fond of talking to Edwina, why don’t you tell her something useful for once?”
~ * ~
Go to his chamber. Go now!
Edwina was dropping into sleep through utter weariness when the ghost’s shriek sent her leaping out of bed. Whose chamber? But she knew the answer already. Richard’s chamber? Why? She couldn’t just barge into his bedchamber, particularly after what had happened last time. He had grown to tolerate her. That had to be enough.
All these thoughts ran through her head as she scurried down the passageway and tapped on Richard’s door.
Immediately, he pulled it open. Like the first time, he was naked to the waist. She should turn her face away, but she couldn’t.
His eyes widened. After a brief hush of silence, he whispered, “Edwina.”
She didn’t know what to say. She had to have a reason for coming here. Not just, ‘the ghost sent me.’ That would be absurd. “Richard, I―”
He tugged her inside his bedchamber and shut the door. He pulled her into his arms with a groan, and automatically hers went around him. “Oh, my darling,” he said. “I’m so tired. So afraid.”
She nodded, tears on her lashes. She laid her head on his bare chest and they clung together, at one in their worries and fears. His heart beat hard beneath her cheek. He caressed her hair, kissed it, and gave a soft sound of contentment.
She’d wanted to hug him, to make him feel better, and now she had her wish. Never mind that desire was swarming up inside her, that her heart’s frantic beat matched his. A little comfort was all he needed. She raised her head to push away, to―
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