The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated. “May I be excused?”

  “May I be excused?” Cordelia mimicked, pitching her voice an octave up. “May I be excused? I told you to go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Phoebe executed a half-assed curtsey and fled, closing the door behind her.

  “Saved by the bell. But you two, not so lucky.” Cordelia circled them, watching with pleasure as Justine fidgeted. Dominique, however, was nonplussed and this infuriated Cordelia. “Though I’m sure you were hoping it would, it hasn’t escaped my attention that the dust on the tops of the frames in the Gallery of Ancestors hasn’t been touched in ages.”

  “But, Mrs. Heller, we did dust-”

  Cordelia silenced Dominique with hard slap to the face. “You will shut your fucking mouth when I’m speaking to you!”

  Dominique stared at the floor.

  Cordelia shook the sting out of her hand and continued. “I check these things, you know, and when I see my orders being ignored, you leave me no choice but to take disciplinary action. You only have yourselves to blame.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Heller.” Justine didn’t dare meet her eyes. “But we did-”

  Cordelia moved to her, bringing her face just inches from the little slut’s. “Well, Justine,” she said. “Sorry might have worked the first time I caught you disobeying and then lying about it, but at this point, I’m out of sympathy. You’re both lying.”

  She circled them again, tasting their fear, relishing it like a sweet dessert. “You will go about your duties for the rest of the night. After you’re finished, you are both to come to the basement.”

  Justine whimpered.

  Cordelia raised a hand to slap her. The girl recoiled and went silent.

  Smiling, Cordelia said, “I expect you both at ten p.m. sharp. No excuses.”

  Justine stared at the floor and nodded.

  “Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl said.

  Dominique gave a nod. It was the most Cordelia could ever get out of the little bitch.

  “Very well.” Cordelia stalked to the door and held it open. “You are dismissed, Dominique. Justine, come with me to my parlor. I need you to move a painting.”

  The Gallery of Ancestors

  After dinner, Thad, Belinda, Mr. Manning, and Cynthia sat at the table in the cozy dining room on the second floor. “Can I show Belinda my picture now, Daddy?” asked Thad, dimpling up.

  Mr. Manning smiled. “Yes. Go and get it.”

  Thad tore off.

  Cynthia huffed, her strawberry curls bouncing around her face. “Daddy! He’s running!” She called after Thad. “We’re not supposed to run in the house! I’m telling!”

  “No running, Thad,” said Mr. Manning. He looked at Belinda, his steely eyes softening. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little worn out. Are you well?”

  Belinda tried to hide her embarrassment. “I’m fine, Mr. Manning. Thank you.”

  “Please, call me Eric when it’s just the family.”

  “Yes, Eric.” The name tasted like forbidden candy on her tongue.

  He brought his hands out in front of him and rested them on the table. “So, Grant tells me you got lost in the east wing.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. It happens to all of us at one time or another.”

  Cynthia giggled. “You got lost?”

  Eric frowned at his daughter. “Cynthia. Be polite or you’ll have to leave the table.”

  “But I want dessert.”

  “Then be polite.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Thad returned and thrust a paper at Belinda. “Here,” he said. “I drew it just for you!”

  Belinda looked at the Christmas tree on the page. “Oh, Thad,” she said. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Really?” Thad looked proud. So did his father. Cynthia scowled.

  “Really,” said Belinda. Right then, her phone chirped and she saw a text from her ex-roommate, Randi, begging her to text her back. Irritated, she slipped the phone back in her pocket.

  “Thad,” said Eric. “Why don’t you set the picture on the sideboard to keep it safe until we’re finished here?” He watched his son, then turned his gaze to Belinda.

  His face seemed to grow more handsome and intriguing every time she looked at it, the way the details of certain paintings reveal themselves after repeated exposure. His storm-colored eyes, resting under dark brows, were clear; she loved it when they twinkled with amusement. His nose was strong, his cheekbones high, his jaw squared and powerful. His full lips brought a flattering contrast to his features, and often seemed to be lifted in a barely perceptible smile. And then there was his body. She lowered her gaze to the thickness of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders and she felt self-conscious.

  Eric cleared his throat, his expression serious. “It’s definitely more welcoming than the painting that hung in your office.”

  For a moment, Belinda had forgotten what they were talking about. Thad’s drawing! “Oh, yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

  “Belinda got lost in the east wing!” Cynthia announced to Thad.

  Thad’s eyes went wide. “You did? Did you see any ghosts?”

  “Thaddeus.” Eric’s voice was firm. “That’s enough.”

  Thad sat down. “Yes, sir.”

  “Speaking of paintings,” Eric said to Belinda. “After dessert, how would you like to come to the Gallery of Ancestors with me? I’ll show you where Thad’s unseasonal interest in Christmas trees comes from.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Eric smiled. “I think you’ll find our family history quite interesting.” His eyes twinkled again and Belinda, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, looked down at her lap.

  ***

  After dessert, the kids were excused from the table and Belinda and Eric Manning headed downstairs to the Gallery of Ancestors where Eric ushered her into the fifteen-foot-wide but very long, temperature-controlled hall. Though the entirety of the stone-hewn mansion felt cool, this refrigerated area made her wish she’d brought a sweater.

  “The Manning family has always been fond of art and having their portraits done. Most of these go back centuries.” Obviously proud, he led her to a portrait of a stern-eyed red-cheeked fellow who stared down at her from a ruffled collar that looked too festive for his face. “That is Aloysius Manning, who led a calm life. He was a favorite of the king and designed monuments for the entire royal family. He died at the age of forty-five when a statue of the king’s half-sister fell on him.”

  “How horrible!” Belinda put a hand over her mouth. Her phone chirped. She ignored it. Randi and Momma could go suck eggs.

  “Oh, that’s nothing.” Eric moved on. “Here’s one of Aloysius with his family. I dare say, with that many children and a wife that stern, he probably appreciated the early departure.”

  Belinda had to admit it didn’t look like a happy family.

  They continued on, Eric narrating as if he were a museum guide. “And here is the gallows painting from your office.” He paused, looking puzzled. “This doesn’t belong in here. I can’t imagine Grant would place it here. Something’s odd. Oh well. I’ll tell you about it anyway.” He smiled. “One of our ancestors, Lady Johanna Manning, painted this from life. It was done in December of 1788 - the last time a witch was hanged at Ravencrest. I must apologize - it was not the painting I would have hung in your office.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what it was doing there, either. There was a landscape before. Curious.”

  “Witchcraft?” she asked. “Who was the witch? What did she do?”

  “There are no portraits of her, but she was Carmilla Harlow, governess to Edward and Alice Manning’s children for a time. Not only did Edward, his wife and his brother all consider her a witch, so did their mother, Johanna.

  “Did they keep diaries?” Her phone chirped again, twice in succession.

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” Eric asked. “It might be important.”

  “No,
” Belinda shut the phone off. “My former roommate and my mother are being very aggressive. It’s nothing.” She slipped the cell into her back pocket with finality. “Please tell me more.”

  “Very well. Yes, there were some diaries, but we primarily know about the witch from the journals of the Manning family physician, Bran Lanval. Dr. Lanval chronicled three or four generations of Mannings; he’s part of the reason we know so much about that era.”

  “And he believed in witches?”

  “Oh, yes. They all did back then. They hanged Carmilla Harlow at dawn on Christmas day.”

  “What for?”

  “She was suspected of hexing one of the children. By the way, I’ve had this gallows painting replaced in your office with a much more appropriate one that Johanna also did. Have you seen it yet?’

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It’s a field of spring flowers with Ravencrest in the distance. An entirely different perspective.”

  “Tell me about Johanna. Was she the first painter in your family?”

  “No, neither the first nor the last, but she is the reason the Mannings in Old England were renowned for their peculiar celebration of Christmas.” He smiled.

  “Peculiar?”

  “We had Christmas trees much sooner than anyone else thanks to Johanna. She was from Strasbourg, where they were all the rage. When she married Charles Manning, she brought the tradition with her. The Mannings embraced the tannenbaum many years before they became common in England.” He had a faraway look. “Wait until you see Ravencrest at Christmas. We continue to go overboard.” He smiled. “Family tradition.”

  “I love Christmas.” Belinda returned his smile. “Is there a portrait of Johanna here?”

  “Absolutely. This way.” He led her twenty feet down the gallery. “This portrait of Edward Manning’s family was done in the winter of 1788. That’s Edward,” he pointed at a dark-haired man who bore a strong resemblance to himself, and that is his wife, Alice.”

  “There’s a painting of Alice in my room.”

  “Indeed, there is. She was a great beauty.” He paused, looking from the portrait to Belinda. “I must say, you bear more than a passing resemblance to her.”

  Belinda’s stomach filled with butterflies as Eric continued. “The older lady is Johanna. And those are Edward and Alice’s children, Prudence and Parnell. In fact, Thad begged me to tell that very story this afternoon. The story of the Frost Fair on the Thames and how -- Belinda? Are you all right?”

  Belinda didn’t answer him; she was staring at the little girl, Prudence, who sat with her mother. They both wore red dresses; the little girl’s was embroidered with glistening seed pearls that looked like snowflakes.

  “Belinda.”

  “What?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The girl,” she stammered. “She … She looks familiar.”

  “Possibly you’ve seen her in another portrait. Or if you’ve seen any photos of Cynthia about that age, they’re quite alike.”

  She continued to stare at the little girl. “I’m sure that’s it,” she managed to say. “Another portrait.” She paused. “Did Prudence die in childhood?”

  “No, but she turned into quite the little hellcat later on.” He studied her. “I must say, Belinda, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I guess I’m a little tired.”

  He glanced at the portrait. “We can continue this another time. Shall I see you to your quarters?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Hand at her waist, he turned her toward the door. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep will refresh you.”

  Therapy for Cordelia

  Nervous as cats, the two maids entered the basement. The room was dark, dank, and cold. Everything about it was gray. The walls, the ceiling, it even smelled gray. This was not Dominique’s first time in Mrs. Heller’s dungeon - and it was a dungeon - but every time felt like the first time. There was an element of danger that at once excited and terrified her. Wide-eyed Justine, who stood next to her, probably felt the same. Part of it might have been the secrecy of it all. The maids had been ordered to keep silent about this part of the house - and Mrs. Heller’s hobbies.

  Throughout the room, various pieces of sinister equipment stood empty, waiting. Overhead hung yards of nylon rope, coiled around rafters and metal pegs. The walls were punctuated with a slew of items hung on more pegs: rubber and latex outfits, masks, various styles of whips, ball gags, and dildos of every color, length, and width.

  Mrs. Heller stood in the center of the room. She wore a black spandex dress with dark nylons and knee-high patent leather boots. She held a riding crop and tapped the business end smartly against her palm. Tap, tap, tap.

  “As it happens,” said Mrs. Heller. “You two aren’t the only ones who have been misbehaving.”

  That’s when Dominique heard whimpering. In a dark corner, behind the silver glint of a full-sized iron cage, was Seth Rawlins, the handsome blond man-child who tended the horses and stables. A large red ball gag muffled his cries and his arms were bound to the rails of the cage with leather straps.

  “Seth, here, has been waiting on you two for two and a half hours now. It was very rude of you to keep him in suspension.”

  Dominique stepped forward. “But it’s just ten p.m. Mrs. He-”

  “Silence!” Heller slapped the riding crop across her palm.

  Dominique flinched.

  Heller sighed. “Justine. Go untie the boy and bring him to me.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Heller.” Justine disappeared and Heller, the overhead lights glinting on her spandex outfit, circled Dominique like a vulture watching a dying rodent. “You test my patience, Ms. de la Cruz. More so than any other members of the staff. I wonder if you realize the gravity of your irreverence toward me.” She stopped in front of Dominique, eyeing her. “No,” she continued. “I don’t think you do.” Reaching out, she pulled the gold crucifix from the maid’s neck. “You will not wear your boyfriend in my dungeon.” She flung it away.

  Dominique gasped. “That’s a sin! I’m going to-”

  Heller burst into laughter. “Quit? You tried that already. No, you won’t quit until I decide to let you go.”

  Dominique cringed. She hadn’t been able to say the word ‘quit’ aloud; when she tried, it was as if she’d been gagged. And she found she couldn’t make herself leave Ravencrest either, no matter how many sins Mrs. Heller committed against the Lord. The woman had put a spell on her or something.

  Justine returned with Seth Rawlins.

  Mrs. Heller looked at the stableboy. “On your knees.”

  He knelt, and Dominique couldn’t help staring. Seth was about her age, handsome and tanned with blond hair that fell over frosty blue eyes. He was well built and always smelled of horses and summer sweat. Some of the other maids liked to spy on him while he worked, and although she always felt guilty about it later, Dominique had joined them more than once. She’d developed a little crush on the guy, but now, even though he wore nothing more than a pair of mesh shorts, there was nothing sexy about him. His eyes were tired and red as if he’d been weeping. Strings of saliva hung from both corners of his mouth, and on his back, Dominique could see red welts where Mrs. Heller had whipped him.

  “You’ll wear this,” Mrs. Heller said to Justine, handing her what looked like a mass of straps and something red. “And nothing else. Strip.”

  Obediently, Justine removed her clothes, set them on a cruel-looking pillory, and slipped into what Heller had handed her.

  Dominique couldn’t suppress her gasp when she saw what Justine wore: a strap-on harness sporting a huge crimson latex dildo.

  Heller pressed the long, sharp heel of her knee-high boot to Seth Rawlins’ back. “Face down and ass up, boy.” Seth assumed the position. “And you,” she said to Justine “On your knees.”

  Dominique watched the other maid sink to her knees behind Seth. It was like watching the p
lot of a horror movie unfold - she didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t look away.

  “He will wear nothing,” Heller said.

  Justine looked up at her. She appeared confused.

  Heller sighed and rolled her eyes. “He will wear nothing.” She repeated herself with what seemed like great patience.

  Justine’s hand was uncertain as she reached for the waist of Seth’s shorts.

  Heller tapped the heel of her boot on the hard cold floor. “No hands, you silly little cunt. You know that. Do I need to tie them for you?”

  Justine swallowed hard, shook her head, leaned in and clamped the elastic waistband of Seth’s underwear between her teeth and, after one false start, managed to peel them off.

  “You know what to do.” Heller tossed a tube of lubricant toward Justine then sat down on a black leather settee and crossed her arms.

  Justine positioned herself behind Seth and coated the red dildo with gel.

  Dominique looked away. She couldn’t watch.

  “And you,” said Mrs. Heller. “You will pleasure me while I observe.”

  Dominique heard the dry click of her own throat as she tried to swallow.

  “And of course, the same rules apply to you,” said Heller as she stood, slipped out of the black dress to reveal a garter belt and no underwear, then lowered herself back onto the settee. “No hands.” She leaned back on her elbows and spread her legs.

  Trembling, Dominique sank to her knees.

  “Enter him now, Justine. Quickly.”

  Seth’s painful cries behind the ball gag made Dominique’s task seem easy by comparison. She felt guilty about how much that comforted her.

  The Man in the Garden

  After a relaxing shower in her starry blue bathroom, Belinda climbed into bed. Nothing strange had happened in her lavatory since that first morning, and for that, she was very grateful. Pulling the cool sheets up to her chin, she glanced over at the painting of Alice Manning and smiled. She really was a beautiful woman. As for the resemblance Mr. Manning - Eric! - mentioned, she didn’t really see it beyond build and coloring, but she blushed again, blood warming her face and her nether regions simultaneously.