The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  Grant chuckled. “He has a gift for understatement. It tastes like it was grown in the most sulfurous pit of Hell.”

  “Actually, I think that’s exactly what he said.” Belinda smiled. “And that it bears fruit out of season and is very old. Why did you tell him not to cut it down?”

  “We call it the ‘family tree.’ There’s a curse on it, you see.” He looked sheepish. “It’s probably nonsense, of course, but we’d rather not take the risk.”

  “A curse?”

  Grant watched her a long moment then glanced toward the house as if afraid of being overheard. “The story goes that when the tree was just a sapling in the early nineteenth century, a witch cursed it. As long as the tree lives, so will the Manning clan. The tree is said to be immortal unless it is cut down - and if it is, the family will die quickly. And most horribly.”

  “I noticed the tree this morning. It seems bigger. There’s so much more fruit on it than I thought. Suddenly, it looks so … alive. How is that possible?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that you noticed. Few people, even Eric himself, have ever commented.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The tree is nourished by more than water, earth, and sunlight. The sudden lushness has to do with the quakes and the dancing statues. It’s all connected.”

  “By witchcraft,” Belinda said.

  He nodded, holding her gaze. “Somebody’s been tinkering with Mother Nature. That’s never a good idea.”

  “Who?”

  Grant seemed to be debating on his answer. “We’ll talk more later. We need to get back - my duties await.”

  Belinda tried to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps-”

  “Of course I will tell you more. When we go to lunch again. And we must talk about Thomas and Prudence soon.” He rose and extended his hand. “Inside the cemetery gates is hallowed ground and it’s probably safe to chat here - but I’d feel better going to town where I know she can’t hear us.”

  “Cordelia is a witch.”

  “Yes. She’s always the witch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ravencrest reveals its stories in its own good time.” He opened the gate and firmly latched it after they left the burial ground.

  Beyond the Door

  Darkness and tragedy first laid claim to the east wing of Ravencrest in 1810 when Edward Manning’s second wife, Rebecca Dane, was found murdered in her art studio on the third floor. Her deep burgundy gown at first hid the blood from her husband’s view, and upon entering the studio, the fool thought she had fainted and had run to help her.

  Then he saw she had no head.

  Edward and his son, Parnell, searched in vain for Rebecca’s head and for her murderer. They questioned the servants and tenant farmers and went down into the tiny outpost of Madera del Diablo, or Devil’s Wood, as English-speaking settlers called it. They even searched the nearest seaports, including the one where Chloe Harker had disembarked.

  Chloe had only recently arrived in Alta California, making the long journey from London across the Atlantic, around Cape Horn, and up the Pacific coast, following rumors of the grand mansion. Ravencrest Manor had been imported from England and rebuilt by the Baronet Edward Manning and his son. According to the stories, the mansion stood on a hill not far from the ocean some distance north of La Purisima Concepción, one of the missions so recently built by the Spanish priest, Junipero Serra.

  Chloe Harker, bearing a falsified letter from her father, Lord Harker of Woodley Glen, waited until after Rebecca Manning’s funeral to arrive on Edward’s doorstep, letter of introduction in hand.

  Chloe claimed to have been sent for by Lady Manning to serve as her companion and secretary. Edward did not question her claims but told her she was no longer needed and invited her to stay at Ravencrest until she secured her passage home.

  In truth, Chloe had never intended to be Lady Manning’s companion, so she accepted the invitation graciously and continued with her original scheme: to soothe the widower himself; to beguile him and take advantage of what she had paid Rebecca’s murderer to do.

  The baronet was oblivious to her kindness and her beauty, too deep in grief over losing yet another young wife, so Chloe had turned her eyes to Parnell, who’d grown into a strong, handsome man, educated and intelligent. Even his slight limp, a reminder of that long ago “accident” at the Frost Fair in London, did not detract from his strapping masculinity. But he was engaged to be married, and as oblivious to her as his father had been.

  And a woman twice scorned is not to be trifled with.

  Poison

  At her window, Cordelia stared out into the night, into the gardens. She saw no movement among the statues, but the icy feeling would not leave her. Something had gone terribly wrong with last night’s spell. She shivered and looked at her bandaged hand, knowing that using her own blood had taken her spell to heights she’d never intended. Nor had she meant to bleed on the earth, and she shuddered at her mistake. She thought of the possible consequences and shook her head. Nonsense, she told herself. Such things aren’t possible. But in the back of her mind, she knew better. Remembering the trembling earth, she shivered once more.

  She drew the drapes closed, noting an ache in her wrist. The throbbing had begun several months ago. It had come and gone for a while, and now appeared to be permanent. She’d give Dr. Johnson a call soon, although she doubted he could do much for her with his modern form of magick. The ache was a symptom she recognized all too well: this was the beginning of the end for the body she currently inhabited. But I’ll think about that later. For now, she had more immediate issues to resolve. Belinda Moorland was drawing dangerously close to the secrets of the east wing, and that was something Cordelia could not allow. She sighed and stepped to her vanity, unlocked it, and withdrew her grimoire of poisons and a vial she kept at the back of the drawer. She raised it and smiled.

  A sound bristled behind one of the vents.

  “Spying on me, are you?” She laughed. “You must be starving by now, little man.” She returned her attention to the vial.

  Cordelia had first heard of datura from gypsies traveling around England, but she hadn’t made use of the plant until a Chumash shaman who called it “Jimson weed” reintroduced her to it. It had ignited panics over witchcraft in Jamestown, Virginia. It had nothing to do with witchcraft, of course. The plant was a simple hallucinogenic, but it would keep Belinda preoccupied and away from the east wing - and its inhabitants - until Cordelia came up with a permanent solution.

  “Yes,” she said. “This will take care of Belinda Moorland just fine.”

  There was a whimpering from the vent.

  Cordelia turned. Two anxious green eyes stared at her from between the slats. She approached the vent, crouched, and stared inside. “You’re harboring a little crush on our governess, aren’t you?”

  The Harlequin growled low in his throat.

  “Are you worried for your friend, little man?” She gave him a wide grin. “Well, you should be.” Laughing, she returned to her vanity.

  A metallic crash rent the air as the vent exploded outward and clattered to the floor. The Harlequin bolted from his hidey-hole and latched onto her ankle.

  “Ouch!” Cordelia kicked, but the Harlequin’s grip was firm.

  “Bastard! Let go!” Sharp teeth bored into her skin and gnawed as the Harlequin growled and gnashed like a rabid Chihuahua.

  She whirled and slammed her leg against the vanity. The Harlequin made an Oomph! sound and let go. Her gray suede Ferragamos were spattered with her own blood. “You little fucker! You’ll pay for that!” Cordelia swiped her grimoire off the vanity and raised it high in the air.

  But the Harlequin was quick.

  She grappled for him as he scuttled toward the vanity and pulled himself up. With rapid hands, he swiped the vial of datura extract, leapt from the chair, and darted away, disappearing into the yawning
vent.

  “No!” Cordelia dropped to her knees, thrust her hand inside the dark hole and grabbed at the Harlequin.

  But it was too late. The little bastard was gone.

  Cordelia banged her fists against the wall. “I’ll get you, you little fucker! And when I do, I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I’ll fucking kill you so slowly that you’ll beg to die!”

  Exhausted and frustrated, Cordelia leaned against the wall. She’d have to come up with a new plan. But the little bastard took my only vial of extract. She had salvia and other mild hallucinogens on hand, but nothing that would damage the governess’ credibility like a dose of datura. I must put her out of commission until I figure out how to keep her away from Thomas and Prudence Manning. In the meantime, she decided to call a meeting in the dungeon with Justine, Phoebe, and Dominique. She had aggressions she needed to take out. Maybe she’d even include the stableboy, Seth, for this session. The girls would like that. And it’s such great therapy for me.

  ***

  “I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?”

  Riley jumped and hot tea slopped over his cup.

  Grant’s eyes went wide as he stared at the vent. Something crashed in Cordelia’s office next door.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  It was the voice of Cordelia Heller, there could be no doubt.

  “She sounds rather annoyed,” Grant said.

  A series of clanging raps echoed down the vent, followed by scurrying sounds.

  “That’s no rat,” said Riley.

  Grant shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  Riley set his teacup on the parlor’s polished coffee table. “What do you suppose she’s up to?”

  Grant didn’t have an answer, but he was certain it was something that wouldn’t end well for anyone. “I’ll look into it,” he said, rising.

  Belinda in Bed

  There had been no more temblors since she had witnessed - or hallucinated - the lewd dancing statues, and for that Belinda was grateful. Thomas Manning - if he wasn’t just a figment of her imagination - had said there was witchcraft involved, and Grant Phister had backed it up. That shocked her the most. Outside, the night was clear, under a full moon so bright she could see the green of the grass surrounding the motionless alabaster gods below.

  Witchcraft? That’s as nuts as seeing ghosts! Still, Grant’s words, as crazy as they’d been, were reassurance that she wasn’t losing her mind.

  Startled by a scratching sound, Belinda dropped the sheer curtain, crossed to the vent, and listened carefully. For a moment, she thought she heard slow, heavy breathing - then it was gone. She forced herself to rein in her imagination. It’s only rats … But she had doubts about that. She waited a moment, refusing to crouch down to look into the vent. You’ll just scare yourself - and maybe come face to face with a disgusting rodent!

  Dismissing the sounds, she slipped out of her sheer summer robe and laid it across the foot of the bed. The pale blue complimented the lavender shade of her bedspread. She smiled, thinking that everything in the west wing of Ravencrest looked like it belonged in an issue of Better Castles & Gardens; even her inexpensive clothing looked glamorous here. She turned to the wall of mirrored closet doors, took in the baby doll nightie that matched the robe. She felt good about her reflection. Since she’d been walking and swimming daily, her body looked more toned and fit despite the very decadent meals and desserts whipped up by Niko more nights than not.

  With a yawn, she slipped between sheets the color of fresh bamboo shoots and laid her head on the pillow. Refusing to think about ghosts or witchcraft or anything else weird and creepy, she closed her eyes and almost immediately began to drift. Images swirled through her mind, first of Eric Manning smiling at her, of him swimming toward her and popping up out of the water next to her, smiling, eyes twinkling with pleasure. She saw Cynthia and Thad playing by the pond. In the next flash, she saw a woman in a long lavender dress and shawl. Her dark hair flowed long over her shoulders and moved as if in a breeze. Her beautiful face seemed familiar and her deep green eyes studied Belinda with great sorrow.

  Alice Manning’s lips didn’t move, but her voice was clear. What Thomas told you is true. You must help us free Prudence from the Witch’s curse.

  ***

  Cordelia Heller exited the dungeon, not bothering to untie the maids. Something was happening - something to do with the governess. She could sense it. Pausing only to slip a black satin dressing gown over her corset and crotchless panties, she raced up to the second floor and down the corridor toward Belinda’s room.

  The Ghost’s Story

  Alice extended her hand to Belinda. She took it and instantly saw through Alice’s eyes.

  It was 1783 and her new husband, Edward, was in Paris overseeing the installation of a monument at the grave of a French dignitary. He’d been gone a week and would not return until the end of the month. Her brother-in-law, Thomas, had come to Ravencrest from London to visit and he and Alice were on horseback, riding across the rolling hills of the estate. They came to a copse of shady oaks by a stream and dismounted. Thomas, a blanket folded over one shoulder, unstrapped a wicker basket from behind his saddle and carried it into the shade of an ancient tree. “The perfect place for a repast,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.” Alice guided the horses to the edge of the stream so they could drink, then turned to watch her brother-in-law. He was younger than Edward and still walked like a youth, with a carefree bounce that showed off his broad shoulders, slender waist and long, muscular legs. Alice felt herself blush. Edward was a fine man and she loved him dearly but there was something exciting about Thomas that she could not deny. It was so strong that she almost turned down his invitation for a picnic, but her mother-in-law, Johanna, encouraged her to accept, saying she’d been inside Ravencrest, alone, for too many days and needed some color in her cheeks.

  She watched Thomas spread the blanket under the tree. He never wore the powdered wigs most gentlemen - like Edward - wore and his blond ponytail caught rays of sunlight and glittered like gold.

  It was a warm summer’s day made for picnicking and when he turned, smiling, and gestured to her to join him, she gladly did. He gave her his arm and helped her sit down. Despite herself, she blushed again. This was nothing but an innocent picnic with her husband’s brother. There was no reason to blush.

  The cook had packed the basket with cold meat and cheese, pastries and fruit, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. Thomas uncorked it and poured two cups. “It’s from Burgundy, where Edward is working now.”

  She accepted the cup.

  “To Edward,” Thomas said, and they toasted.

  The food was filling, the wine dizzying. After they ate, they lay back on the blanket and stared up at the leaves.

  “I wish …” Thomas began.

  “Hush.” She spoke quickly, knowing the wish, sharing it. Thomas was three years younger, and when she’d met the brothers, he was only sixteen. He’d tried to woo her, but he was a boy, and Edward was a man, a man who respected tradition and family and worked hard in the business his forefathers had created. He was solid and steady. Back then, Thomas had taken little interest in the family business. When Edward had proposed, Alice followed her head and accepted, but her heart still wanted this blond youth.

  The wine, the food, his nearness, fooled her into thinking she was a maiden again … She broke off the unbidden thoughts. Thomas was a man now, a fledgling perfumier, and she knew he would go far. Lying beside him on the blanket beneath the old oak, she caught his scent, both perfume - his very first creation, Genévrier de la Mer - and his natural fragrance, and they drove her mad. “We should get back.”

  “So soon?” Lazily, he covered her hand with his. “My dear sister-in-law, we’re on holiday today. Let’s relax a bit longer.”

  “Just a bit. I should see to the household chores. The servants are sometimes slack if I’m not there.”

  He chuckled, deep and throaty. “My mother will see t
o them. You know that by now, don’t you?” His hand squeezed hers then let go and stroked the back of it slowly, gently, with two fingers.

  Her stomach filled with butterflies.

  “More wine?” He sat up and poured the last of the Burgundy and passed a cup to her.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  He smiled. “We shouldn’t be wasteful.”

  She sipped then handed the empty cup to him. His eyes on hers, he lifted it to his mouth and tasted the rim. “Your lips make the wine sweeter.”

  She said nothing, though she knew she should.

  He dropped the cups into the basket and turned on his side to face her. “I envy my brother. I wish you had agreed to marry me.”

  Still, she could not speak and averted her eyes. She did love Edward, loved him dearly, but what she refused to admit was that she loved Thomas more.

  “Alice, I wish you were mine.” He reached up and touched her cheek, stroked it gently. She tried not to show any pleasure. Then his hand went into her hair, searching out the pins that held it. When he removed them, she allowed it, though she knew it was wrong.

  Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, onto the bodice of her lavender gown and moved gently in the breeze.

  “If I were an artist, I would paint you so.”

  “You are an artist, Thomas.”

  “Then I shall create a scent and name it for you.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.” The butterflies moved lower, and her body warmed even more.

  “I’ll call it Lavande d’Amour and no one but you and I will know it’s named for you.” He touched her cheek and let his hand linger.

  She allowed it.

  “I have loved you since the day I first laid my eyes upon you.”