His errant thoughts were interrupted by the slowing of the coach and its eventual stop in front of a small building that was purported to house the office of one Felix Fairman, solicitor. Steeling himself against the bad news that was to come, Raleigh stepped out of the vehicle and approached the narrow door, only to be brought up short by a sign in the small window of the establishment.
“Called away on business,” Raleigh read aloud. Obviously, his recent luck was running true to form. He could hardly leave Chistleside without at least speaking to the man who had drafted the will. Dash it all! Lifting his quizzing glass, Raleigh examined the missive more closely, but there were no further clues. Should he wait? The rather shoddy office had no secretary or attendant whatsoever.
With a dismissive glance at the place, Raleigh strolled along toward the next doorway. It had been his experience that in small villages such as this, each person knew his neighbor’s business. But inside the sweet-smelling interior of the pastry shop, Raleigh quickly found other items that attracted his attention. As he ordered some sugared biscuits and a fat raisin tart, he wondered idly if his wife could be persuaded to partake, and grinned. He would make it another one of his personal missions. To feed them to her. From his own fingers.
Drawing himself up sharply, Raleigh shook off the image so out of keeping with Jane’s demeanor and leaned casually against the wall. “Tell me, good sir. Do you know aught of the fellow to your right, Mr. Fairman?” Raleigh asked.
The shopkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. “The solicitor? Odd, that. Man never takes a day off in all the years he’s been there, then suddenly closes up and rushes away faster than I’ve ever seen him move. Very peculiar, if you ask me!”
Raleigh stifled a groan. Was nothing in Northumberland easy or straightforward? “He left today?”
The shopkeeper snorted. “No, sir! He’s been gone a good fortnight, and his rent’s due at the first of the month. He’ll be tossed out, if he don’t return soon, I suspect.” Apparently reconsidering his harsh words, the shopkeeper attempted a smile as he pushed forward Raleigh’s purchases. “Not a bad sort, mind you, but I’ve never had any use for those of the law.”
Raleigh took the treats, and the man’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t one of his…associates, are you?”
Grinning, Raleigh shook his head and tossed the fellow an extra coin to discourage any further questions. After his reception at the Rose and Thorn, he had no desire to make known his connection to Craven Hall.
But just what was he to do now? he wondered as he headed for the exit. Knowing his mother, she would have been extremely thorough—and adamant—about her son’s imminent arrival. However, if Fairman had been gone for two weeks, the countess’s letter might well be gathering dust under the door, having never been read. Sighing, Raleigh decided there was nothing for it except to check again tomorrow.
Lud, he was well and truly stuck in Northumberland for another night, Raleigh realized. The alarming thought of spending this time at Craven Hall made him wince. As if the sleeping arrangements were not bad enough, the food was even worse!
“One more bit of information, if you would be so good,” Raleigh said over his shoulder. “Where can the best meal be had?”
The man’s features relaxed visibly, and he scratched his ear as he considered the question. “Besides my own house,” he replied finally, “I’d say the Four Posts. It’s south of the village and so named because the post roads come together there. Finest cooking and wine a man could want, even a gentleman such as yourself.”
Raleigh grinned. “Thank you, good sir. You’ve been most helpful.” Once back outside, Raleigh called to his coachman. “South, George, to the Four Posts, where we can at last get a proper meal.”
The memory of the breakfast he had been served lingered like a bad dream, and although his stomach would not dare to make any obnoxious noises protesting its lack, Raleigh was well aware of its desires. Indeed, he felt as though he were on the brink of starvation, and opening his wares, he popped a small sugared biscuit whole into his mouth.
Leaning back against the cushions, Raleigh savored the taste while his thoughts drifted toward his wife once more. Again, he was assailed by visions of coaxing Jane to take a bite, to let down her hair, to touch him…
Raleigh sighed. Perhaps it was this godforsaken Northumberland with its dearth of fresh air, but something seemed to have roused his appetites. And not just for food.
Jane rolled up her sleeves and slipped an old apron over her gown, eager to begin. She decided to try her best to open up the chamber next to her own, so that Raleigh would not have to sleep upon a couch in the dressing room. She was just about to head toward the family wing when Madeleine appeared, obviously fresh from an unsatisfying encounter with Mrs. Graves.
Smiling in greeting, Jane attempted to deflect the maid’s anger, for she did not want to get in the middle of a dispute between the haughty Frenchwoman and the dour housekeeper. “Madeleine,” Jane said, “I am so glad that you are here with us.”
Apparently she succeeded in distracting the maid, for Madeleine took one look at Jane and trembled with the force of some strong emotion. However, it was not exactly the reaction Jane had been hoping to achieve.
“What…is…that…thing you are wearing?” the Frenchwoman asked, in horrified accents.
Jane looked downward. “Oh, I didn’t want to dirty my clothing. I’m sure you’ll want one, too, because of the dust. I was hoping that you would assist me in preparing at least one room today.” Jane’s encouraging smile faded in the face of Madeleine’s horrified expression and she was reduced to watching in dismay as the maid’s face turned an alarming shade of red.
“I…will…never…wear anything remotely resembling that…that…rag!” Madeleine said, her voice rising. She glared at Jane with a contempt worthy of the countess herself.
“What is more, I will never do any cleaning. I am a lady’s maid, trained to assist a noblewoman with her toilet, not handle dustpans! I have tried my best to serve you, but the terms of my engagement did not include rubbish collecting, housekeeping or the donning of castoffs! Nor can I to be expected to perform under these incredible conditions without proper quarters and at the very farthest reaches from cultured society.”
Drawing herself up to her full, if dainty, height, the Frenchwoman gave Jane a disgusted frown. “I tender my resignation to you, my lady, effective immediately. If you would be so good as to have one of the coaches brought round, I will accept conveyance to the village, where I may obtain a berth on the mail at the earliest opportunity.”
Jane blinked, astonished by the vehemence of the woman’s speech. She suspected that as a viscountess she should be outraged at such impertinence, but she only felt relief at the imminent departure of the demanding servant. Hiding her elation with some difficulty, Jane forced herself to appear somber. “If you feel that you must go, naturally I will not interfere,” she noted.
At Madeleine’s curt nod, Jane reached for the nearest bell to summon the housekeeper. Only an acute awareness of her position stopped her from running out to get the coachman herself in order to hasten her maid’s farewells. After what seemed like an interminable wait, Mrs. Graves arrived, looking as unhappy as usual. “Please have the remaining coach take Madeleine into the village. She is leaving us,” Jane explained.
Glancing contemptuously at the maid, Mrs. Graves returned her dour gaze to Jane. “It begins,” she intoned.
“What begins?” Jane asked.
“No one stays at Craven Hall…for long,” the housekeeper said as Jane eyed her in astonishment. Was there a ghost of a smile on the woman’s twisted lips?
Ignoring that ominous pronouncement, Jane nodded toward her maid. “Please send us your direction, so that the viscount can settle your wages,” Jane said.
“That will not be necessary,” Madeleine answered, her nose in the air. “I was retained by the countess and will return to her employ.”
Privately, Jane won
dered if Raleigh’s rigid mother would welcome back an employee who had relinquished her assignment, but she said nothing. And after exchanging stiff goodbyes with the departing Frenchwoman, Jane returned to the task at hand.
Dustpans indeed! All these fancy nobles and their servants seemed to fear hard work. Perhaps that was what was wrong with the dandified lot of them! Drawing in a sudden sharp breath as the memory of Raleigh, lean and muscular, invaded her thoughts, Jane shook her head. Obviously, her husband was doing something to keep…fit.
Blowing the air out of her tightening chest, Jane dismissed her curiosity on that score and headed for the family wing. If Raleigh had his own chamber, perhaps she would not ever have to see him in such a state of dishabille again.
But tackling her chore wasn’t as easy as Jane had hoped, her first obstacle being the door itself, which was either locked or jammed tight. With a sigh, Jane wandered back toward the kitchens where she found Antoine in a taking over Mrs. Graves’s monosyllabic answers to his pleas for a room. In fact, the voluble Frenchman was carrying on loudly in his native tongue, and Jane knew enough French to be certain that it was not at all flattering.
“Antoine!” Jane said, giving him a mildly reproving look. “I have a suggestion. Why don’t you come help me prepare the family wing? Then you can have one of the dressing rooms there, just until something else is ready,” she added when he eyed her askance.
Nodding glumly, the valet bowed slightly. “Thank you, my lady, but as I was just discussing with this—this housekeeper, you cannot be expected to take on the duties of a servant. We must have help.”
“No one will come,” Mrs. Graves said.
“And exactly why is that?” Antoine asked, bristling with irritation.
“Craven Hall has a long history of unhappiness. Those who dwell here are doomed to it. And those who die here are tied to it for eternity.”
“Are you saying the place is haunted?” Antoine asked in an incredulous voice.
Instead of answering, Mrs. Graves gave them a long, grim look.
“Well! You are certainly entitled to your opinion, but my dear papa would not approve of such talk, so please keep it to yourself,” Jane said, hoping to nip that business in the bud.
“If this building is as you say, why do you linger here?” Antoine asked, his expression fierce.
“It is too late for me,” Mrs. Graves said. “But not for you. Save yourselves,” she advised darkly.
When Jane saw the Frenchman’s mustache twitch ominously, she stepped forward. “That is enough. I will hear no more talk of spirits. And I’m sure his lordship will be able to find someone in the village willing to work for a decent wage, no matter the location.”
Jane put no faith in the words of the housekeeper, whom she was beginning to think was short a sheet, but whether Raleigh could afford to pay many more employees, she did not know. “In the meantime, I don’t mind a little dust, but I do need the keys,” Jane said.
She had already spied the huge, old ring that dangled from Mrs. Graves’s waist, heavy with iron and brass, and she held out her hand, waiting. The housekeeper, however, seemed slow to move, and Jane again wondered if she understood clearly.
“The ring, if you please,” Jane said. Beside her she could sense Antoine’s rising indignation, and she smiled soothingly.
“Which room do you wish to open?” Mrs. Graves asked.
Jane blinked in surprise. “Why, the chamber next to my own.”
“It is not habitable,” Mrs. Graves said stonily.
“Well, yes, but I shall remedy that.”
“I will open it for you, but I need the keys.”
“Whatever for?” Jane asked, genuinely puzzled. She knew from wandering about before breakfast that many rooms were locked, and she did not want to have to search out Mrs. Graves every time she sought entrance to another.
“I need them to go through the house,” Mrs. Graves said.
“Then let us open all the rooms and do without the keys entirely,” Jane said reasonably.
“They are too dirty and unsafe.”
“Unsafe? The building looks sturdy enough to me,” Jane said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” the housekeeper answered ominously.
“Now, see here,” Antoine said, his mustache twitching. “If there is some dangerous area, I demand that you show it to us at once. And the keys, too, you impertinent woman!”
“Antoine, there is no need for name-calling. I’m sure Mrs. Graves will comply with my request,” Jane said.
Although the housekeeper’s expression remained unchanged, she lifted the heavy metal and handed it to Jane, her bony fingers lingering, as if loath to let it go. Finally, her hand dropped away, but she scowled. “Do not lose them or yourself in the house. It is an old structure and perilous to those who do not know their way.”
“I think I can manage,” Jane said. “Unless there is some specific spot that you deem a hazard?” She lifted her brows inquiringly, but the housekeeper only stared back at her in silence. “Very good,” Jane said, more cheerfully than she felt, and she turned to go, with Antoine at her heels.
“Sacre bleu!” the valet muttered. “I do not trust that woman! Sinister! Most sinister! If we had beds, she would likely murder us all in them!”
“Shh!” Jane said, stifling a smile. Although Antoine was prone to exaggeration, she could not deny that Mrs. Graves was rather forbidding. As a vicar’s daughter, she had been raised to be charitable to all, but the housekeeper made it difficult.
“Do not worry, my lady. I, Antoine, will stay with you, for I know his lordship would not forgive me if I left you at the mercy of that odious creature!”
“I am sure Mrs. Graves means us no harm,” Jane said. If the woman had worked here for many years without help, then it would undoubtedly take her a while to grow accustomed to strangers running the household. Still, Jane could not deny that she was grateful for Antoine’s presence. “Should you wish to accompany me, I could certainly use some assistance,” she admitted.
“Of course, my lady. I am at your service,” Antoine said, with a slight bow. But Jane saw the telltale movement of his mustache, and she smiled. Considering that the valet was even more fastidious than her departed maid, she wondered just how long he would last as a veritable charwoman.
Jane was to ponder that question more than once as they made their way through the darkened passage, Antoine making outraged noises whenever he was forced to step over some clutter or brush against a stack of refuse. He began muttering beneath his breath in French, and Jane thought it best that she not attempt to translate it.
When at last they reached the main bedchamber by means of a circuitous route through the house, Jane bent forward and tried several large keys before one clicked in the lock. She swung the door open only to be assailed by a blast of foul air and the sight of precarious piles of old papers, pamphlets, books and even empty glasses and plates stacked on a small table. Jane stepped back, coughing, as she surveyed the mess. “This must have been Mr. Holroyd’s room,” she said, for she could see what looked like a dust-free path meandering toward the enormous mahogany bed.
“And from the smell of it,” Antoine cried, holding his nose above his rapidly twitching mustache, “he’s still there!”
Several hours later, Jane had sent loads of rubbish outside with the returning coachman and grooms that Antoine had drafted to assist them. Although he kept up a steady stream of French muttering, the valet had not complained, but had even moved furniture for her and filled buckets of water so that she could wash down the walls.
It was when she was in the process of carefully wiping the surface of one of the full-length murals that Jane found the door. Like the one that led from her room to the adjacent dressing room, it was cleverly concealed in the artwork, and she drew in a sharp breath as she pushed it open.
On the other side was the clean, rather Spartan space in which she had slept last night, and Jane felt a chill climb up her spine. Le
aving the door ajar, she stepped into the room and turned around to face the mural. As she suspected, the door was positioned in the exact area that she had seen moving last night.
But the main chamber had been locked. Who could have been in there so late, moving around the cluttered room in absolute darkness? Loosing the air in her lungs in a rush, Jane sat down on the bed and stared uncomfortably at the opening.
Had she really seen the door open? It could have been simply a trick of the moonlight, which might have picked out the edges that she had not noticed during the day, Jane told herself. And as for the sounds, Raleigh was probably right when he blamed vermin. Terribly loud vermin. Although she tried to explain it all away, Jane felt a sudden chill that made her clasp her arms. A gust of cold air howled through the casement and sent the door to the main chamber slamming shut with a bang.
Looking around her anxiously, Jane rose to her feet. The moors were windy and the windows were old, she knew, yet she could not suppress an urge to reunite with Antoine. Stepping toward the mural, she found where the opening lodged, but no latch. Reaching upward, she ran her hands over the entire surface only to pull back in bemusement.
Hands on her hips, she shifted on her heels to stare at the closed portal. There was no way to open it from this side. With a sigh of annoyance, Jane walked to the passage and entered the main bedroom. There the latch was visible and turned easily. How odd.
“Look at this, Antoine,” she called over her shoulder. The valet stopped grunting as he pushed aside a table and came toward her. “There is no latch on the other side. Why would there be a way to enter from this direction and not that one?”
Antoine shrugged. “Perhaps the master did not want his wife sneaking in upon him unawares,” he said. At Jane’s shocked expression, he flushed. “Or perhaps it is simply broken. As is so much else here,” he added under his breath.
Jane frowned in disagreement as the valet went back to his task. No matter what Mrs. Graves insinuated or how much Raleigh complained, she had seen nothing wrong with the house except dirt and clutter. It simply had been neglected. Was that so horrible?
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