The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “Who is she?” Belinda asked.

  “She’s Alice Beaucoeur Manning, one of Mr. Manning’s ancestors. There are a number of paintings of her in this house. Ask Mr. Manning about her.” Grant tilted his head, studying the artwork. “Near the Regency period. You know, she rather reminds me of you.”

  Belinda felt herself blush. “Thank you.”

  Grant moved to the door. “I’ll leave you to relax, now. If you do get hungry, the kitchen is on the first floor, in the east wing. Go through the first arch after the landing and just follow your nose until you find it. Easy peasy. Breakfast is served between 7 and 7:30.”

  “Thank you, Grant.”

  “Oh, and you have an appointment at 10 a.m. tomorrow for a brief company physical. It’s a requirement for our health insurance, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  “Good night, Belinda.” The door closed behind him.

  Dreams

  That night in bed, Belinda lay awake for hours. Her nerves were tight, her mind busy with things she needed to do. Calling her mother and Randi, she decided, would not top that list. Belinda had turned her phone off to better ignore their never-ending messages. Punching her pillow, she rolled onto her other side and closed her eyes, but sleep still evaded her.

  She turned and stared at the moonlit room. It was so beautiful, but the mirrors disturbed her; there was something eerie about them. Maybe it was the way the pale light caught the reflection of the portrait of the woman in the lavender dress and made it look as if she were she were staring at her. Or maybe it was the way shadows waved in the wall of mirrors, their non-stop movement reminding her of cavorting gremlins - or rats - peeking at her. She looked away.

  As she turned onto her back, thoughts of Mr. Manning echoed through her mind. His cologne … and his lips … he was a very attractive man. She tried thinking of other things, cutting short any thoughts of his terrible administrator, Mrs. Heller.

  As she stared at the high ceiling, her eyelids grew heavy. Her body finally relaxed and her mind began to wander. She came alert once, when she thought she heard footsteps near her bed, but no one was there and she let her eyes shut and drifted instantly back to the edge of sleep. She saw a quick flash of Randi’s angry face, then Mrs. Heller’s knuckles whitening around the clipboard … and then Mr. Manning’s blue-gray eyes. At the edge of her awareness, she heard footsteps; she opened her eyes and thought about sitting up, but she was too comfortable to investigate. Belinda slept.

  She stood in a long, dark hallway. It might have been in Ravencrest; she couldn’t be sure. There was a voice - deep, but soft, gentle - echoing down the corridor to reach her. She couldn’t make out the man’s words.

  She stepped forward, seeming to float. A chill coursed through her, and looking down, she saw she wore only a white chiffon robe. Realizing it was nearly transparent, she became self-conscious and looked for something to cover herself. There was nothing except gray stone and white fog.

  A voice, feminine, carried from the other end of the hall. “Come,” it said. “Come, Belinda.”

  Frightened - how does she know my name? - Belinda turned away. As she did, she thought she heard a man softly chuckle. It was a pleasant sound and she moved toward it. Maybe it’s Mr. Manning.

  “My love, come see me …” Cologne ripe with forest and ocean surrounded her like a heavenly scented fog. It is Mr. Manning!

  I’m coming. Forgetting her near nakedness, she ran toward his voice, her bare feet chilled by the cold marble. Up ahead, she saw his shadow turn a corner as he called her name. She knew he needed her and ran faster, thinking of nothing but catching up.

  Portraits of Manning ancestors stared at her with disapproving eyes as she fled down a long gallery. She had to reach him. Finally the figure stopped in front of a doorway. Silhouetted by candlelight, he crooked his finger, beckoning to her as he disappeared into the room.

  She followed him into the chamber. It was lit only by guttering wall sconces and dying flames in a fireplace across the room. Rich tapestries lined the walls and the tall heavy four-poster bed was covered with soft furs.

  “Come be with me, my love.”

  She raised her eyes and looked across the bed. He stood in shadows, but she saw the glint of his teeth as he smiled. “My darling girl.”

  Heat rose in her belly. Flushed, embarrassed, she looked down at herself, saw her body through the gossamer robe, saw her nipples turning dark and hard. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that voice.

  “Mr. Manning?” She walked around the bed, past a huge pitcher and bowl with folded towels set out on a table hugging its foot. “I’m coming.”

  The light from the sputtering wall candles began to fail, but as she fell into his arms and smelled that wonderful cologne, she knew she had found Mr. Manning.

  “My dear,” he said, his English accent, minor earlier, now as strong as if they were in a London castle. “Let me look at you.” He lifted her hair and nuzzled her ear, nibbling the very tip of it. It drove her mad. She knew she would lose her virginity this night.

  He lifted her with ease, then tossed her onto the soft furs in the middle of the bed. Unable to see more than shadows in the dim light, she waited as he undressed. She thought she would die before he came to her.

  “My dear girl, would you have me?”

  “Yes.”

  She felt the bed move as he knelt beside her. She wanted him to touch her. She almost begged him to, her hips rising off the fur, desperate to feel him.

  Finally he reached for the ribbon that held her robe together at the throat and began pulling it in a slow, teasing motion. It took forever. She waited, her body electric, pulsing.

  At last it was undone. Then he did the same slow tease with the broader ribbon that held the robe at the waist. “Let us remove this encumbrance,” he said. “As small as it is, it keeps me from my destination.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her head seemed to be trying to float away on his scent.

  In a single swift move, he straddled her thighs with his own and pushed the robe open to expose her breasts. He bent and kissed each one, murmuring “Lovely” as he did. She pressed them toward him, toward his mouth, wanting to feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth, but he sat up and opened her robe completely. “I must see all of you, my love.”

  Unable to stop herself, she lifted her hips toward him. He moaned. “I see you agree.”

  He lowered himself against her and she felt his muscled thighs, his warm flesh, against her own. His manhood, rock-hard, pressed into her thigh. She bent her legs at the knees, and opened them.

  “Oh, my dear girl, your eagerness drives me mad. But not yet. Not yet.” Mr. Manning, still hidden in shadow, carefully avoided the entrance she offered, and bent his head to her neck, nibbling, licking, kissing. His chest brushed hers, moving as he laved his tongue over her neck; the feel of his scratchy stubble against her breasts exciting her even more. He kissed her lips once, twice, but as she opened her mouth to accept his tongue he moved lower, trailing down her neck and between her breasts. His cock pushed against her knees, much too far away, as he sucked one nipple into his mouth and kneaded the other between thumb and finger.

  A wave of dizziness took her as a tickling sensation started at the very center of her sex and began to spread outward and upward. Her nipples echoed it, seeming directly wired to her nether lips and the little throbbing button between them that wanted attention so desperately.

  “My girl! My dear girl!” Mr. Manning righted himself, letting go of her breasts so he could stare down at her.

  She groaned and bucked harder, clutching the soft, cool furs beneath her with tight, desperate fists. It took everything she had not to reach down and take hold of him and force him inside her. She pressed her head hard into the bed and cried out in frustrated passion.

  “I have never seen such a thing! Have you spent even before I’ve taken you?

  She couldn’t think. She couldn
’t breathe. She was all tingling nerves. “More,” she begged through quick, deep breaths. “I need more.”

  “You are spent and you are spending still! My God, you are a randy wench!”

  She heard him groan, felt him take hold of his cock and guide it to her waiting lips, and she pushed to meet him, to take his manhood into her and become a woman.

  Just as the tip of him was about to enter, a scream echoed through the room. “Nooo!” A woman’s face, distorted with panicked rage, appeared an inch from her own.

  Belinda started, gasped.

  “This woman is not for you!” cried the female specter. “You will not have her!”

  A sudden whirlwind of motion swirled above Belinda. Terrified, she screamed.

  She shot up in bed, covered in sweat and gooseflesh. At first, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. Her gaze raced from one end of the room to the other, seeking familiarity.

  Ravencrest. I’m at Ravencrest. It was just a dream.

  BOOK 2: AWAKENING

  Introductions

  Belinda made her way down the long staircase. She felt self-conscious, out of place, not only because Ravencrest was so beautiful and imposing, but because of the previous night’s dreams. They came back to her in waves now. The swirling fog and the beckoning voices. The flickering candles in the wall sconces. Mr. Manning in the bedchamber and the filmy gown she wore. Belinda blushed as she remembered Mr. Manning tossing her on the bed, preparing to have his way with her. His body straddling her … excitement kindled in her loins. But then came the woman’s face, ending it all with those terrible shrieks. Belinda shuddered as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  She remembered Grant Phister’s directions. The first arch on the east side led to the kitchen. She turned and made her way down a shadowed corridor, passing several dark doorways before coming upon a long formal dining room, lit by morning light streaming through tall windows at the narrow end. She paused to peer inside. Tall ladder-back chairs lined a long table fit for a castle’s banquet hall. Raised-panel wainscoting, topped by a heavy chair rail, lined the bottom four feet of wall. Above that, somber maroon wallpaper reached all the way to the ceiling, providing background for yet more imposing portraits of long-dead people in fashions spanning several centuries. A few landscapes of dreary English moors and lonely seaside cliffs were interspersed.

  She left the dining hall and began walking toward a pair of doors at the far end of the corridor. Warm golden light seeped from beneath and between them. She pushed the swinging door open, revealing a huge, well-lit kitchen. At the far side, morning light glittered through the windows that lined most of one wall. Below the windows were worktables. In the far corner, a couple of people sat eating and perusing newspapers at a round breakfast table. Neither looked up.

  Belinda stood in the main part of the kitchen. It was painted pale yellow, which surprised her after her interview in that horrible black-and-white room yesterday - That was only yesterday? The stove was the biggest she had ever seen, and the refrigerator was twice the size of a normal household appliance. Black granite counters topped cherry cabinets with old-fashioned ornate brass handles, though the kitchen was otherwise modern. Above the counters were more cabinets; the ones that held dishes had paned-glass doors to show them off. Stainless steel appliances lined the walls. Although attractive, the kitchen was almost as intimidating as the rest of the house.

  “Belinda! There you are!”

  She turned toward Grant Phister’s pleasant voice. He stood by a large opening in the wall with pulleys just visible. She realized it had to be a dumbwaiter.

  “Good morning, Grant,” Belinda said.

  “Good morning to you. I trust you slept well.”

  Belinda felt color rise to her cheeks. Aside from some very strange dreams, I slept fine. “Just perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Come, come.” Grant ushered her across the room with a hand at her waist.

  “This is Riley Doring.” Grant gestured at a sandy-haired, tanned man with a handsome, sun-seamed face that complemented his tan aviator shirt and snug jeans. “He’s our head groundskeeper and does maintenance around the manor, inside and out. Riley, this is the kids’ new governess, Belinda Moorland.”

  Riley Doring gave her a smile and a nod. “Glad to meet you, Belinda,” he said with a delightful Australian accent. “I maintain him, too.” He looked at Grant and his smile widened into a playful grin.

  Grant waved a dismissive hand. “He does know how to work with wood.”

  Belinda tipped her head a little as she moved in for a handshake. “You’re a carpenter?”

  The men exchanged glances and laughed. Riley gave her hand a friendly squeeze and let go. “Sometimes, love, I can be. I am pretty handy with wood.”

  “That he is,” said Grant. “That he is.”

  “Okay ... ”Belinda was certain she was missing something. “I’m sorry … I don’t understand.” Her cheeks were hot and panic stirred in her belly. “You both work with wood?”

  The pair roared with laughter and the red-haired girl on the other side of the table set her newspaper down, revealing a black maid’s uniform trimmed in white. “Knock it off, you two,” she said. “They’re just messing with you, Belinda.” She stood and held her hand out. “Hi, I’m Phoebe. Glad to meet you. Grant and Riley are married.”

  “Oh! I get it.” Belinda took the pretty redhead’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Phoebe.” She looked back at Grant and Riley. “Forgive me. My upbringing was very sheltered.”

  Grant nodded. “How bad was it?”

  “All-girls school, Catholic. My mother made sure I was under the thumbs of nuns from the time I entered first grade.”

  “Jesus,” Phoebe said. “I thought I had it bad. At least I got to go to a regular high school. How did you survive?” She paused. “I’m sorry for swearing. You’re Catholic, I guess?”

  Belinda laughed, at ease. “No. Those nuns put me off religion for good.”

  “You might be interested to know, Belinda, that the east wing, on the third floor, just above Manning Memoriam, was once home to an orphanage.” Grant smiled. “It was run by nuns.”

  “And it’s supposed to be haunted by them!” Phoebe sounded excited.

  “Nonsense,” Riley said. “No worries, Belinda. The nuns are long gone.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “I’ve had enough nuns for this lifetime.” She paused, noticing the fragrant aromas of coffee and hash browns. Her stomach growled.

  “Coffee?” Grant asked. The man really was a mind reader.

  “Please.”

  “Sweet and white, like Riley?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “What is Manning Memoriam?” Belinda asked while Grant prepared coffee.

  He brought her a cup and one for himself. “The Manning family business has always been death,” he said. “And perfume. They were all stone carvers until the 1700s, when Thomas Manning - our Eric Manning’s direct ancestor - became a perfumier. Thomas was a bit of a black sheep, you see, but he made a grand name for himself and his sons, who followed in his footsteps. Why, two of our Mr. Manning’s brothers run the business from London to this day. Thomas’ brother Edward and his son headed to America and continued catering to the dead. They became famous for their unique statuary and other memento mori.”

  Grant sipped his coffee. “They added new services to the business, becoming one of the first embalmers after the Civil War, and by the Victorian era, the basement of the east wing was a full-service mortuary, one of the first and most elegant in the United States. They had a studio upstairs in the east wing that caught morning light perfectly for painting portraits of the dead. For many years the chambers now occupied by Mrs. Heller served as viewing rooms, and her drawing room was the chapel.” He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a half-smile.

  “Seriously?”

  “Quite. This mansion has served many purposes over the years. At various times it housed a modest orphanage, a small hosp
ice for Civil War veterans, and even an asylum after the witchcraft scare.”

  Belinda remembered the cab driver’s words. “Witchcraft?”

  “I’ll tell you the story some time.” Grant smiled.

  “Okay,” Belinda said. “I’ll wait for that story, but tell me, what is a memento mori?”

  “It’s Latin for ‘Remember that you will die.’ They’re literal mementos of the dead. The Mannings created and sold art with this theme, both to the public and to mausoleum and cemetery owners. In the Victorian era, post-mortem photographs became the most desired memento mori. The Manning photographers had their own office and studio here where people brought their deceased children, pets, relatives, whatever they wanted.” He shrugged. “Other times the photographers went to the customers’ homes to do their work. Sometime I’ll show you the little ‘museum’ we have, if you like.”

  “She doesn’t want to see that stuff, Grant!” Phoebe said. “Do you, Belinda?”

  “Um, I don’t know. Not any time soon,” Belinda said, feeling nervous. “And now? Is there still a mortuary down there?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Manning’s Uncle Albert had no interest in having dead bodies on the premises, even if the mortuary was, handily, in the basement,” Riley said. “You know, Grant, the equipment is all still down there. You could rent the place out to horror movie crews.”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. The boss just might do it.” He winked at Belinda. “Mr. Manning’s uncle returned to a modernized form of monument and memorial making. The Mannings are born businessmen, and he did just fine. Our Mr. Manning doesn’t even have the stone works here on the property; he sends that business - a very small part of Manning Memoriam now - to an elderly stone carver, a master of his craft.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Belinda said.

  Grant nodded. “That’s nothing. The business is all about technology now. He’ll even send your Aunt Gertie’s ashes into space and have a star named for her. Or put together a book about her. Or create a computer-generated movie - why, he’s stolen some of Spielberg’s best artists. Disney’s, too. And you know, he still employs artists and photographers for post-mortem portraits? A few people still like that sort of thing.”