Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  Phoebe's nails pinched his hand as her grip tightened. "Do you think she's dead?"

  Moving quickly, Stephen pried his hand loose and placed two fingers beneath Mrs. Potter's nose. "She's fainted."

  "Whatever happened?"

  "We shall have to wait for her to wake," he said as he lifted the cook to the bed. "See if you can find another candle. I don't suppose you have smelling salts, do you?"

  Giving him an expression that clearly said she found the question insulting, Phoebe found a rag and a small bowl of water on the nightstand.

  "Sweet Delilah, what was that?" Dee cried as she sailed into the room, Hampson right behind.

  "The cook screamed," answered Stephen.

  Dashing into the room hand-in-hand next were Elizabeth and Winston. They might have served tea for all the blasted commotion. "For the love of Mary, who was murdered?" Winston asked.

  "No one. Cook fainted," added Phoebe. "Like you, we heard the scream all the way in the library, came running and found Mrs. Potter in a dead faint."

  "Oh, dear," murmured Hampson, his face rigid.

  "Here, give me that," said Dee, grabbing the rag from Phoebe and crossing to the felled cook. While dabbing the woman's brow, she shot Stephen a questioning glare. "You wanna tell me exactly why you two was up and about in the middle of the night?"

  Stephen decided this was the perfect time to exert ducal authority. "Not particularly."

  "Do you want to tell me?" Elizabeth asked as she studied Stephen and Phoebe's faces for any signs of mischief.

  "No," Stephen snapped.

  Evidently realizing there was no immediate threat to the household, Winston leaned against the bedpost, a grin tugging at his lips. "Would you like to tell"

  "Oh, good grief," Phoebe mumbled, right after she stepped on Stephen's toe with the heel of her foot before he could say something rude. "We heard noises and were investigating. That's all."

  "It seems Wibolt is the only one missing from this little party," Winston said, knowing Stephen likely wondered the same thing. "Where do you suppose he might be?"

  "I believe he is still abed," answered Hampson, standing a good inch taller while shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his flannel robe.

  Mrs. Potter sputtered, gasped twice and snapped awake. Obviously still panic-stricken and dazed, she reached for the handle of the broom. "Is...he...gone?"

  Stephen patted her hand, reassuring her all the while. "Who?"

  "His lordship." She raised a finger toward the corner. "Standing there at the foot of me bed, big as life. Scared me near to death, he did. I'll never be able to cook a decent meal again."

  Stephen refrained from mentioning that Mrs. Potter didn't seem to know how to cook as it was, but felt that now was probably not the best time to criticize her culinary abilities. She was still shaking like a banner in the breeze. "I assure you, Lord Marsden made no appearance tonight. You had a dreadful dream, that's all."

  "Hah. I told Mr. Hampson I'd cook, but I won't be spending me nights here no longer."

  "Shhh," Stephen cooed. "Certainly an intelligent woman like yourself knows better than to believe in ghosts. In either case, you can share Miss Rafferty's room for the rest of the night." He looked to Phoebe, who nodded. Shifting to the foot of the bed, Stephen addressed the group. "It's settled. Elizabeth, please help Mrs. Potter gather her belongings while Winston and I check a few things. Go along, Phoebe. We'll muddle through this mess tomorrow."

  Judging from the looks Dee exchanged with Stephen, Phoebe wished she'd left the room five minutes earlier. She needed no lecture, no warning, no interrogation. Not from anyone. Not tonight. Stephen had provided enough for her to think on.

  "Come on, child. Back to bed," said Dee.

  Without an ounce of energy to argue, Phoebe simply turned on her heel, heading for the stairs. Phoebe swore she could hear Dee's mind silently spinning with questions. "Speak your peace. Otherwise, you'll toss and turn all night, which will only keep me awake." Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. "But before you do, I'll tell you this. Nothing happened. At least not what you suspect."

  Dee matched Phoebe's steps, taking the stairs briskly. She clasped Phoebe's hand and squeezed. "I know that, Sweet Pea. I'm just testing the man's mettle."

  Phoebe chuckled over that revelation, which didn't surprise her one little bit. Yawning, she removed her robe, climbed onto the lumpy straw mattress, pounded a spot here and there, finally gave up and lay down.

  Humming, Dee pulled the cover all the way to Phoebe's chin. "Why so glum?"

  "Dee, I'm trying, truly I am, but it's difficult to even find the rainbow this time, let alone the pot of gold. However will I find a decent man to marry me with this place as my inheritance?"

  Dee stroked Phoebe's curls from her forehead as she had done so many times before. "Don't count yourself out, Miss Phoebe. Miracles, big and small, happen everyday. Go to sleep, child. Things will look brighter in the light of day."

  When Phoebe awoke the next morning, all the light of day showed was more dirt, more cracks and the overall dilapidation of Marsden Manor, which was considerable. Hampson and Wibolt were still too old to do serious work and a pot of gold had not magically appeared from the end of a rainbow. Stephen's words the truth, but annoying all the same replayed again and again in her mind. What was she going to do? How would she ever find a man to marry her with Marsden Manor as the lure?

  Restless and seeking answers, she skipped breakfast to wander the halls of the manor, every torn curtain, each bare room a greater source of confusion. Finally she faced her ancestors, their paintings a contradictory mix of either forbidding, imposing people or affable souls that she knew so little of. The portraits depicting her mother's easy laughter and her grandfather's kind eyes only increased her melancholy.

  "Your mother was a lovely young woman."

  Spinning about, Phoebe spied Hampson standing at the end of the hallway, a somber expression on his face. His livery, cleaned and perfectly pressed, was worn at the elbows and the knees. She simply couldn't imagine him masterminding a plan to rob her of her inheritance. She glanced at the painting again. Her mother sat on a stone balcony, the deep blue ocean and endless horizon her only backdrop. "How old was she?"

  "Eighteen. The portrait was commissioned only two months before she sailed with your father. She was so happy. Your grandfather stored the picture in the attic for years. When she died, he returned it to its rightful place as a constant reminder of his foolish pride. He often stood here as you are and stared at the painting. He never forgave himself."

  "She died when I was only six. I remember certain things she told me, but I wish I knew more about her life, her childhood. Daddy never spoke of it. He said it hurt too much."

  "If you will allow me, miss, I think I can help."

  Curious, she followed Hampson as he proceeded down the long hallway. Stopping now and again, he generously offered her a window into her heritage, something she'd never truly had before. She learned that her great-grandfather, a gentleman pirate for part of his life, commissioned Marsden Manor because of his love for the sea. He'd actually kidnapped her great-grandmother, which created a scandal only marriage could quell. They had loved one another desperately. Her Great-uncle Herbert, whose nose was enormous, loved hunting. Great-aunt Rosalund commissioned the building of an orphanage in London against her husband's wishes, and Phoebe's grandmother had been an expert horsewoman.

  Feeling better than she thought possible, clinging to her newfound family, she stopped beside Hampson who waited near a pair of French doors. When he pushed them open, she stepped outside onto a long balcony a hundred feet above a sapphire sea and witnessed the most breathtaking sight she had ever seen.

  Waves pounded the cliffs, crashing and echoing for what seemed miles, calling to her in a hypnotic rhythm. Gulls cried as they soared high above the cliffs, celebrating their freedom for all to hear. The wind blew, crisp and fresh, the feel of salt heavy against her skin. The setting was vast a
nd desolate, just as Stephen had described, and she loved it.

  Hampson braced his feet near the stone wall. "Your mother possessed a most delightful imagination. She sat here for hours, watching for a mermaid to wash ashore or a helpless boat to flounder so she could dash down the cliffs and rescue each and every soul."

  "She used to tell me wonderful stories of pirates and their vessels filled with gold."

  "No doubt inspired by your great-grandfather the pirate," Hampson elaborated, his voice growing more animated as he spoke. "Your grandfather joined her every afternoon for tea. They sat here, their heads tucked together, plotting their travels around the world. When they grew tired of that game, they entertained one another with the most unbelievable tales."

  A small iron table and two chairs in need of painting were nestled in a small alcove on the balcony. It was easy to imagine the scene Hampson portrayed. Attempting to reclaim a tiny portion of her mother's life, Phoebe sat in the nearest chair, placed her elbows on the table and stared out to sea as her mother must have done. "You must have known her very well."

  "I practically caught her from the womb."

  "And you loved her." She smiled at him as he bristled ever so slightly. "So did I.Thank you. Today you have given me the greatest of gifts."

  Blushing over the thanks she offered, Hampson crossed to a stone seat that faced the ocean, suddenly uncomfortable meeting her gaze. He stared off in the distance. The pained expression on his face started to worry Phoebe, but she waited. After a time, with the uttermost care, he pulled a brown linen package from beneath his arm. Removing a bundle from the fabric, he revealed a lovely wax doll. He placed it on the table. "I saved this for you."

  She pressed the small figure to her breasts. Tears gathered in the back of her eyes. "I'm surprised my grandfather allowed you to keep anything of hers."

  "Truly, Miss Phoebe, he loved her more than life itself. The joy in his heart vanished when your mother died." If possible, as though a great burden weighted his soul, his eyes grew wearier, his body more fragile. He pulled a white scrap of paper, which looked like a letter of sorts, from his pocket. When he handed it to her, he murmured, "I deeply regret my inability to do a better job of caring for this place. When you and Lord Badrick are ready, I will answer all your questions." He left without another word.

  Afraid of what she might find based on Hampson's sudden change of mood, she twirled the envelope in her fingers as if a clue to its contents might appear. When she had finally managed to gather the necessary courage, she opened the note and absorbed the scripted words. Then, she read the note. Twice.

  The news was the same, still as shocking and just as depressing as the first time. Suddenly exhausted, she wrapped her mother's doll to her chest, lay her head on the table and closed her eyes.

  While searching for Phoebe, Stephen slipped through the doors Hampson had described. The sight was undoubtedly breathtaking. The person responsible for the location of Marsden Manor had selected well. It was unfortunate the other relatives had neglected to care for the old mansion.

  He saw Phoebe with her head nestled in her arms on the table and decided the poor girl was exhausted. No small wonder. Last night had proved to be rather tiring for everyone. While he considered allowing her the rest she seemed to need, he noticed her hand fisted about a scrap of paper. He crossed to stand beside her, and unable to resist the urge, he nibbled on the exposed ear that her bent position afforded. "Good morning."

  Lifting her head, she balanced her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. "Good morning to you."

  He sat in the chair and saw her face for the first time. More than mere exhaustion haunted her this morning. Her skin seemed translucent and her eyes lacked their normal vibrancy. Although her lips curled slightly, her smile showed no real pleasure. In fact, she looked downright dreary, defeated. Tipping her face toward his, he asked, "What happened? Judging from the pallor of your skin, you look as though someone handed you a death sentence."

  She averted her face and handed him the scrap of paper. It was crumpled and damn if he didn't notice a spot he swore was a tearstain. He read the note and understood her mood. Not only was Marsden Manor broke, but back taxes, likely a considerable sum, were being called for immediate payment. While muttering a curse under his breath, he crumpled the foolscap into an even tighter ball. "Other than I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say."

  "I feel like a marionette controlled by someone who insists on jerking the strings every time I find myself close to a solution. Nanny Dee always says that dealing with problems develops character. Well, I feel like I have enough character to last me a lifetime. At least now I understand the odd message my solicitor sent. Does that seem a fair amount?" She indicated the note.

  "It depends upon the last payment your solicitor made and the size of the estate. It's rather complicated. Besides a dozen sundry things, we pay taxes for manservants and the land. There are the tithes due the Church of England, and your parish requires money for roads and the local poor. The estate ledgers, if maintained, should reveal a detailed accounting. What shall you do?"

  "The cliff has a decent height, but with my luck I'd land on the only soft spot on the entire beach." His shocked expression must have left her feeling a bit guilty, for she quickly added, "I'm teasing. I feel despondent and then some, but I promise the mood won't last long. I've never been one to sulk. Besides being unproductive, it's tedious. Hampson is ready to explain things in detail if you like. After that, I'll decide what has to be done."

  Most distressing was the hopelessness in her voice. The urgent desire to shelter and protect Phoebe surged over him like the waves crashing on the rocks below. It had been years since he'd felt any need to rescue a woman. His wife Louisa had never stirred such self-sacrificial thoughts or tugged on his heartstrings or conscience as Phoebe did.

  He ordered the nagging thoughts from his mind. He wasn't prepared to offer what she truly wanted. Besides, if he offered any advice right now, she'd likely pitch hire over the cliff. What she needed was a diversion! Something to take her mind off the debt, her troubles and the condition of the estate. An adventure. Besides, he'd waited all morning to substantiate his findings from the night before. Wibolt was on his way to the village. Winston and his wife were indisposed the local doctor had come to see to Elizabeth's condition. Mrs. Potter, Dee and Hampson were upstairs setting the servant's rooms to rights. If Stephen's suspicions paid off, they would have more to confront Hampson with than the condition of the estate.

  Pulling her chair out, he clasped her hand in his. "Right now, I suggest you think about something else. Come along."

  "Where exactly?"

  "To the cook's room."

  "Whatever for?"

  "I'd wager my best mare that our nocturnal visitor is quite human and someone in your employment." They wound their way to the north side of the manor, carefully avoiding everyone. To guard against any unwanted interruptions, Stephen closed the door and began a systematic search of the cook's room in the same fashion he'd investigated the music room the night before.

  "Do you still believe the house has secret passages?" Phoebe asked. She studied the sparse furnishings, glad for the distraction Stephen offered.

  "It's a distinct possibility. Few servants' quarters have shelves such as this. It struck me as odd." With his ear pressed to the wall, his fingers probed the wooden edge framing the recessed shelves. A quiet but definite click came from somewhere inside. "Here we go." He pushed against the wood with his shoulder and the entire shelf opened to reveal a set of stairs that descended to a lower level. Grabbing a nearby candle, which he quickly lit, he slid into the tunnel. "Let's see where it goes."

  Phoebe watched him duck his head and hunch his back. Goodness, his shoulders practically touched the sides of the old stone walls. "Now?" she asked. "Down there? By ourselves?"

  "I wish to know as much as possible before we talk with Hampson," Stephen said, his excitement barely contained. "His resp
onse should prove interesting."

  She stepped to the top stair and stared down into shadow. Dank and musty air wafted through the opening. She hated dark, enclosed areas. Aware of the sweat forming on her palms, she swiped her hands against her dress and steadied her voice.

  "That must mean you think Hampson's the ghost, although I can't fathom why he chose to scare us. Surely he can't expect to gain anything if I up and leave. Perhaps it was Wibolt. He failed to make an appearance last night. But he seems so sweet. If you do think they're guilty of something, wouldn't this be dangerous to go down here, alone? Perhaps we should get Winston."

  She felt Stephen's hand on her chin. His eyes, filled with concern, met hers. Ever so softly, he said, "I doubt either man is capable of any true violence, but now that you mention it, perhaps it would be best if you remained here to make sure no one disturbs me."

  Bless the man, he didn't laugh or scold or taunt. He simply accepted her fear and offered a way to maintain her dignity. The thought of sneaking down a spooky tunnel that led to who knew where with only a puny candle was uninviting to say the least. Facing her fear, she admitted that likely a mouse or two was the greatest danger they'd encounter. Prompted by the belief that Stephen would take care of her, she squared her shoulders and pasted what she hoped was a valiant smile on her face. "You'll keep me safe?"

  "With my life."

  On his vow, she followed, gripping his arm like a vise. When he took a step, she matched his with one of hers. The small tunnel barely seemed large enough for a child, yet she knew grown men must have utilized this passage time and again. At the bottom, the stairway opened to a larger chamber that split in two different, very dark, menacing directions. Her stomach churned with anxiety. By the time she'd managed to calm herself down a bit, several rats skittered into the blackness, their tiny feet scraping the walls and floor in their haste to escape. One stray rodent scampered across her slippered foot. Phoebe practically vaulted onto Stephen's back, swallowing her scream at the same time.