The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  When Belinda entered college, she had scholarships and worked on top of that to afford to live in a sinful coed dorm. Rhonda hit the roof, but there was nothing she could do to force the girl to come home. Undoubtedly, she’d slept around in school, ruining herself and her reputation, and when she graduated, she again refused to come home. Happily, she had a hard time finding a well-paying job, and at last had finally agreed to share a place with Randi Tucker, so Rhonda had been able to keep close tabs on her.

  And then Belinda took the job allegedly teaching children at a millionaire’s house out in upper-crusty Devilswood, leaving Randi high and dry. She even threw the millionaire’s money at her to cover the rent. Rhonda sipped her sweet tea and shuddered at the thought of what Belinda must have done to get that money. Obscene images danced through her head. She belched.

  Randi - a good girl, the daughter of Rhonda’s best friend - had been devastated when Belinda ran out on her in the middle of the night. Just devastated. Poor Randi had called Rhonda that very night and the two had talked until the wee hours, trying to figure out why Belinda would do such a thing. Maybe that millionaire put a spell on her. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s in league with the Devil. Maybe he’s a sex pervert. Probably both.

  After weeks of being ignored by Belinda, Rhonda decided that Randi needed to go out to Ravencrest and drag the girl home, by force, if necessary.

  Randi readily agreed and had gone last night, but then she’d simply disappeared. She didn’t answer her cell phone, hadn’t so much as acknowledged a single text. Randi - unlike her own daughter - was a polite young lady who always answered her phone and replied to texts immediately, even if that meant she had to pull over while driving. Rhonda had texted three helpful messages while Randi was on her way to the mansion and she had stopped and replied every single time, right up until she arrived in Devilswood. Then she went silent: Something was wrong.

  Rhonda’s stomach twisted. She had already called the police to report Randene Tucker missing, but they’d told her she had to wait a full twenty-four hours. After giving them a piece of her mind - What the heck are my taxes paying for? - she’d hung up and made herself breakfast.

  She crunched into her Nutella-slathered toast, then paused to spray a dollop of EZ Cheese on it. Everything’s better with cheese. Belinda had always hated EZ Cheese - maybe that was a hint that something was wrong with her. “Hmmph,” Rhonda said around the toast. In the living room, the God Club’s theme music started up. “Praise God,” Rhonda called to the television. “Praise God!” She picked up her bowl of cereal and began pouring it carefully into her mouth. By the time the music ended and Reverend Felcher began the opening prayer, the Captain Crunch was only a memory. Grunting, she pushed herself to her feet and took her sweet tea, EZ Cheese, and plate into the living room, where she plunked down into the Barcalounger and set her breakfast on the TV tray beside it.

  After turning up the volume, she eyed Reverend Felcher. A man in his late forties with a thick, dark, perfectly coiffed head of hair and white sideburns that flared like angel’s wings, he wore a navy suit and emerald tie that brought out his amazing turquoise eyes. It was a color rarely seen, an obvious sign of being touched by the Lord. “Hello, Reverend Bobby,” she said, wishing she’d worn lipstick. “Your cheeks are so rosy I wish I could pinch them.” While she felt a twinge of guilt because he wasn’t Catholic, the good reverend did speak for all religions, so it was probably okay. She hoped he wasn’t celibate. “You’re the best, Reverend Bobby!”

  “Let us sing,” replied the preacher. Behind him a green-robed choir broke into a rousing rendition of Rock of Ages, set to a jazzy rhythm backed up by a similarly-robed bongo player.

  “Rock of Ages, Come on me,” Rhonda sang through her Nutella, “Reverend Bobby, you’re nice to see.” She felt herself blush and knew she’d have to confess her impure thoughts to Father Ignatius on Sunday. The thought made her blush harder.

  She wiped away a bead of sweat that had formed under her second chin and returned to her donuts, wishing they’d put the words to the hymns along the bottom of the TV screen. She could never remember them.

  On screen, Reverend Felcher was talking about all the poor people who needed food. He’s such a liberal, she thought, and wished she could win a private breakfast with him. Someone won once a month but she’d had no luck. If she ever won, she’d tell him that people needed to earn their food - not have it handed to them - in order to appreciate it. She’d earned every bite of food for herself and Belinda since the child was six months old and her husband had run off. She’d never begged or taken welfare. The Lord wouldn’t approve of such lollygagging and this was something Reverend Bobby needed to learn. People didn’t need handouts, they needed discipline. She finished her toast and licked Nutella from her fingers, then rewarded herself with a jelly donut, biting almost to the center then sticking her tongue in to lap out the cherry filling.

  Reverend Bobby started praying for the poor and unemployed, silly man, and Rhonda’s thoughts returned to her wayward, ungrateful daughter. She wiped her fingers and reached into her housedress pocket to retrieve her cell phone. She speed-dialed Randi’s number. Receiving no reply, she tried Belinda’s. It went directly to voicemail, which probably meant the girl was on the phone, so she tried six more times, leaving messages to call her and tell her if she’d seen Randi. That would get her attention.

  Reverend Felcher had finished his prayer and was now giving his sermon. Today, he talked about family and how a person needed to be good to his or her parents. Rhonda nodded vehemently and wished she could make Belinda listen. “My friends,” said the preacher, “Reach out to your parents, reach out to your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters. Show them you care. Show them you love them even if they don’t show it back.”

  “Amen!” Rhonda shouted. “Amen!” If Belinda wouldn’t come to her, and if Randi didn’t return soon, she would gas up Scooter - her little blue 1985 Le Car. It had faded to a pale turquoise over the years and she loved it even more because that was her very favorite color. If she had to, tomorrow she would drive out and get Randi and Belinda and bring them back. She bit into her last donut, relishing the powdered sugar that clung to her lips. She would take care of her family as Reverend Felcher - and God - had commanded.

  Old Peckerhead

  As Eric Manning drove the little white golf cart along the narrow paved roads traversing the estate, Belinda kept reminding herself to keep her mouth closed. With every rise and every turn, her jaw tried to drop - the estate was far bigger than she’d dreamed. In the rear seat, Cynthia grumbled that she was too hungry for this pre-picnic tour while Thad excitedly pointed out various statues and fountains.

  “That’s the Profeebius!” he cried as they passed a white statue of a god chained to equally white rocks.

  “I think you mean Prometheus,” Belinda said.

  “Why’s he chained up?”

  “You know very well why,” Eric said over his shoulder. “You just like an excuse to say it.”

  Thad giggled. “He’s getting his liver eaten by birds!”

  “That’s right,” Eric said.

  Cynthia made disgusted sounds. “I want to eat. Let’s eat! What’s in the picnic basket, Daddy?” She paused and giggled. “It better not be liver!”

  Thad cracked up.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart, but it will be great. Niko said he packed it with extra special treats.”

  “I wanna see!” Thad turned to climb over the back seat.

  “Thad, sit down. You’ll see soon enough.”

  They came to a crossroads. “The duck pond is straight ahead,” Eric told Belinda. “We have a nice big picnic table there as well as a barbecue.”

  “And lots of ducks,” Thad added.

  “Yes, lots of ducks and geese and several swans.” Eric turned the wheel. “We’ll head there in a few minutes. First, I’m going to show Belinda the farm.”

  “Farm?” Belinda asked.

  Cy
nthia groaned.

  He drove down a mild incline, then turned and rounded a low hill. Suddenly, at least an acre of garden appeared. “Much of the produce we eat at Ravencrest is grown right here,” Eric explained as they approached rows of corn, knee-to-neck high.

  The light green stalks and leaves waved in the breeze and Belinda could see white-blond silk poking out of some of the ears and the dark form of a scarecrow standing sentry above them in the distance. “This is the biggest garden I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  Thad sat forward. “Daddy, can we pick some corn to have with our picnic?”

  Eric rolled the cart to a stop. “Judging by the weight of the basket, we have more food than we can eat already, but what do you say we pick some to take back for tonight’s dinner?”

  “Yeah!” Thad was out of the cart and running into the corn rows before Eric even turned the vehicle off. Cynthia wasn’t far behind him.

  “Don’t pick any until I give the okay,” Eric called. He turned to Belinda. “Shall we?”

  She smiled and stepped out of the cart, hoping her sandals were up to the trek. Eric joined her. He wore jeans and sneakers and a blue chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up, that brought out the blue in his eyes. He looked good enough to eat - and smelled even better. It was that same scent she’d noticed at their very first meeting. The same scent the spirit of Thomas Manning wore. She felt a shiver of fear … or excitement.

  They started for the corn, Belinda hurrying to keep up with him. Her foot caught on something and she almost fell, but Eric swooped in and caught her by the waist. She felt him behind her, his body warm against hers. “Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her.

  “Yes. Thank you for saving me.”

  “Well, saving you from getting your pants dirty, at any rate.” He gently let her go.

  “I’m so clumsy. I”m sorry.”

  “Next time wear walking shoes. For now, we can make do.” He offered her his arm.

  She hesitated, a couple of stray butterflies still fluttering in her stomach, then folded her hand over his elbow. In the distance, Thad yelled, “Come on!”

  Eric led her into the rows. Corn stalks whispered and tittered all around them, an eerie sound she’d enjoyed ever since her first walk through a Halloween corn maze when she was ten years old and Momma had allowed her to spend the night with a friend.

  Up ahead, she saw Thad dart from row to row, Cynthia on his heels. They were laughing and careening through the corn.

  “Kids,” Eric called. “Be careful. Don’t break any stalks!” He turned to Belinda. “When I was a boy, I spent most of my summers here with my Uncle Albert. I raced and played in the cornfield, too.”

  “That must have been wonderful. Was it very different here from England?”

  “Much sunnier, on the whole. I loved it here. We didn’t have a pool in London so I practically lived in the ones we have here.”

  “What was your home like in London?”

  “We lived in the ancestral townhouse, the very one my many-times-great-grandfather, Thomas Manning, lived in when he became a successful perfumier.”

  “Thomas is your direct ancestor?” Grant had already told her this, but she wanted to hear more.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I noticed his portrait in the gallery. A handsome gentleman.” She smiled. “You look very much like him.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her face turned hot and she looked away.

  Eric chuckled. “Thank you. As I understand it, Thomas was a bit of a rake in his youth, but with a legendary nose. He created the very cologne I’m wearing now. Genévrier de la Mer.”

  Belinda’s stomach flipped as she recognized the name she’d heard from Thomas himself. “It’s wonderful.” She caught his eye again. “It reminds me of Big Sur.”

  Eric smiled. “If Thomas could hear you, he’d be very pleased with that assessment.”

  Belinda blushed.

  “He created a signature fragrance for women, too. Lavender with notes of gardenia and orange blossom and a hint of jasmine. It’s called Lavande d’Amour. ” He locked his eyes on hers. “It would suit you. Would you care for a bottle?”

  What Alice wears. “I would, very much, if it’s no trouble. It sounds lovely.”

  “None at all.”

  The kids raced between the rows.

  “May I ask …” Belinda began.

  “Anything you like.”

  “How did you end up here instead of in your family business in London?”

  “I have three brothers, all with much better noses than mine, all eager to run the business. I was my Uncle Albert’s favorite, and he was mine. My parents agreed to let me finish school here in America and become his heir since he had none. I run our other family business now, the one Albert continued - Manning Memoriam.”

  “Memoriam?”

  “The Mannings were monument makers before they were perfumiers. We carved stone for kings and other royalty. The memorial business came to America with Thomas’ brother, Edward, in the early nineteenth century.”

  “Do you still carve monuments?”

  “Sometimes, yes, but not here on the grounds, though you can see some fine examples of our work in the family cemetery - if we have time, we can drive by it this afternoon. Our methods of memorialization began expanding during the Civil War when photography became popular. We were very successful in the memento mori business.” He gave her a grim smile. “Death portraits in particular. We were the biggest photographers in the West. We did lots of kinds of portraiture, of course, but were most famous for our memorial photography. We had a small studio in those days. Now, the business takes up the entire second floor of the west wing. Perhaps you’ve seen a few of our employees coming and going through the entrances.”

  “I haven’t, I’m sorry.”

  He laughed. “That’s good. You’re not supposed to notice them. They mainly use an outside entrance, but occasionally come through the house, as do clients.”

  Belinda smiled. “It’s all so fascinating. Everything you do … ”

  “It is. We do some cutting edge-” He stopped walking and pointed left, above the corn. “Looks like Old Peckerhead has lost his hat again.”

  “Old … who?” Belinda looked up and saw they were nearing the scarecrow. Even from a dozen feet away, it looked dark and malignant.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling her along. “Let’s see if we can find his hat or if the ravens have stolen it again. We have to replace it at least once a month when they’re nesting.” They crossed to another corn row.

  “Excuse me.” Eric let go of her arm and trotted toward a yellowish object on the ground. He picked it up and turned, waving a battered straw hat at her. “Damned ravens took a chunk out of it, but it’s good enough.” He grinned. “Spot me, will you?”

  “Spot you?”

  “Catch me if I fall.”

  “Um, okay.” Belinda followed him to the heavy post that held the scarecrow high above the corn.

  He placed the hat on his own head then tried the post. “Sturdy as always.”

  “How are you going to climb that?” The scarecrow’s feet were at least four feet up.

  “Same way as I did when I was a lad.” With that, he went behind the post and easily started climbing - there were footholds attached.

  Belinda looked at the scarecrow. It was crucified - feet nailed together, arms outstretched and nailed to a crossbeam. It wore old jeans and a faded but garish Hawaiian shirt, blue with yellow pineapples, no doubt to scare off the birds. She couldn’t bring herself to look at its face until Eric asked her if the hat was just right.

  She looked up. The straw brim shadowed a stuffed cloth head with big black Xs stitched on it to represent the eyes and mouth. It was a gruesome thing.

  “Well?” called Eric.

  “Perfect,” Belinda said. It almost looked like the thing’s gloved hands were covered in dried blood, but it was only rust from the nails. Probably.

&nbs
p; Eric leapt down. “Damned ravens. The other birds, even the crows, avoid Old Peckerhead, but the ravens aren’t a bit afraid of him.”

  “Perhaps because the raven is your family crest?”

  Eric’s eyes twinkled. “Smart lady. Yes, both here and in England, the ravens have always been the Mannings’ constant companions. It’s said that if they ever leave us, the House of Manning is doomed.” He smiled. “They say the same thing about the Tower of London. If the ravens leave, England will fall.”

  “Let’s hope they stay, then,” Belinda said as they began walking. She was happy to get away from Old Peckerhead; she could almost feel his sewn-shut eyes watching her.

  “Yes. I think they’ll stay. Some of them are probably the descendants of a pair of ravens that Edward brought with him when he came here.”

  She looked out over the green hills in the other direction. “You have orchards, too?”

  “Yes. I’ll show you on the way back.” He paused. “You’ve seen our persimmon tree, near the kitchen door?”

  “I have.” Belinda felt chilled despite the heat as the memory of the three nuns proffering the over-ripe persimmon came back to her.

  “It’s far older than it ought to be and it produces fruit out of season. They say it’s cursed. All I know for sure is you shouldn’t eat the fruit. It tastes as if it were grown in the most sulphurous pit of hell.”

  “Why don’t you cut it down?”

  “I wanted to after my uncle died - he had some sort of unnatural attachment to it - but Grant forbade it.”