Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “As long as they do their job, no one needs to be worried about being turned off,” Daphne said mildly. “Sir Adrian has no plans to change anything at this time. He has been very satisfied with the way Beaumont Place is run.” And as long as Cook continues to ply him with goose and turkey pie, Daphne thought wryly, he wouldn’t care if Beaumont Place came tumbling down around his ears.

  “Oh, Miss, that is so good to hear! It has been very difficult for many that used to work here these past few years. Sir Huxley made appropriate bequests for most of us, but without continued employment, it’s been hard for some. We were overjoyed when Mr. Vinton told us about the discovery of the new heir.”

  Not meeting Mrs. Hutton’s eyes, Daphne fiddled with a knob on one of the drawers of the desk. “Er, I was wondering,” she began, “do you know who I should speak to if I wanted to learn to more about the history of the family and Beaumont Place?” She laughed nervously. “Until we received Mr. Vinton’s letter, we didn’t even know of its existence or of Sir Huxley. We have much to learn.”

  Mrs. Hutton beamed at her. “Sir Huxley’s mother was an avid historian—I believe that there is a collection of letters and such that she gathered together. They’re in the library. Goodson would know exactly where they are kept.”

  While she was glad, on one hand, to learn of the collection, Daphne’s heart sank at the idea of wading through decades, centuries even, of what she was certain would mostly be useless information. The collection would comprise predominately letters between loving parents and their offspring, polite notes from friends and relatives, and perhaps, if she was lucky, to liven the boring process, a spicy missive between lovers. Most likely, she thought glumly, it would take her weeks, months of reading about the daily happenings of the Beaumont family before she came across any reference of spectral doings, if at all.

  “I shall certainly look forward to seeing it,” Daphne murmured, “but I was wondering if there was anyone who might be able to give me a broad, um, overview of the history of family.”

  Mrs. Hutton nodded. “Vicar Henley is just the person you should see. Collecting the history of the area and the various families who live here is his hobby.”

  Daphne nibbled her lower lip, thinking hard. Meeting Vicar Henley would be useful, but somehow, she didn’t think that a man of the cloth would spare much time for tales of ghosts and the like.

  “I shall certainly talk to him,” Daphne said, “but is there no one else who….” She looked away from Mrs. Hutton’s birdlike gaze and feeling her cheeks burn, muttered, “Someone who knows some of the less, ah, polite stories of the area.”

  Mrs. Hutton stared at her. “Has someone been gossiping to you about that unfortunate murdered woman?”

  Daphne shook her head, her eyes widening. “What woman?”

  Mrs. Hutton’s lips pursed. “I’m not one to gossip, but shortly before you arrived here, there was an awful murder—a young woman. No one knows who she was, poor little thing, and it was a pauper’s grave for her.” With relish, she added, “They say that her body was mangled like a wild beast had attacked it. One of your tenants, Farmer Brierly, found the body, and since his wife is a bosom friend of mine, we naturally discussed it.”

  “Naturally,” said Daphne in a hollow voice, repelled and yet wanting to hear more. “Did they ever discover who killed her?”

  Mrs. Hutton shook her head. “No, despite Squire Renwick’s best efforts, no one has ever been brought to justice.”

  Deciding she’d heard enough and that her ghostly visitor was enough for her to deal with right now, Daphne confessed, “Uh, that wasn’t exactly what I was after. I was hoping for some, er, stories passed down from generation to generation.”

  Mrs. Hutton chuckled. “Oh, if it’s tales and legends and the like that you’re after, then you need to talk to Goodson’s sister, Anne Darby—our local witch.”

  Daphne looked taken aback. “Goodson’s sister is a witch?”

  Mrs. Hutton nodded, smiling. “Indeed, yes—much to his mortification. She lives in small cottage on the outskirts of Penzance. Her husband died years ago, leaving her with three daughters to raise, and she had no choice but to make her living selling potions and telling fortunes. I don’t believe half the stories about her and the dark arts—I grew up with Anne and have always thought that she had a good heart.”

  Reassured by Mrs. Hutton’s assessment, Daphne asked, “And she knows the, er, legends about Beaumont Place?”

  “Everyone in these parts knows the legends,” Mrs. Hutton said complacently. “We grew up on them, but if you want someone to tell you a tale to make your hair rise off the back of your neck, then Annie’s the one to see.” She looked vexed. “But you’ll have to wait to see her—she’s gone to visit her youngest daughter who lives in Polperro, farther up the coast. Agnes is expecting her first child and wanted her mother with her. I believe that Anne will be back sometime after the first of the year.”

  Daphne’s spirits plummeted. The first of the year might as well be a decade away as far as she was concerned. It looked as if she was going to have to make do with the vicar and the collection in the library. But then something Mrs. Hutton had said caught her attention. “You said everyone knows the stories. Do you?”

  “Well, to be sure, but it’s been years since I’ve paid them any heed.” Mrs. Hutton snorted. “The idea of anyone seeing ghostly creatures flitting about or hearing them singing songs in the middle of the night—foolishness, I call it.”

  “People have claimed to see ghosts in the house?” Daphne asked carelessly, uncertain whether to be glad or upset at that news.

  Mrs. Hutton waved a dismissing hand. “There’s been some silly housemaids who have claimed to have seen things, and some of the older servants used to tell us children stories of peculiar sightings and sounds. Indeed, even in Sir Huxley’s time, there was a young London lady, a nervous sort, I might add, who woke the household, screeching to the skies one night that a ghost was in her room and had touched her face. It was all nonsense, done, I’m sure, to bring attention to herself—she was visiting with her parents, and there was gossip that Sir Huxley was on the verge of making her an offer. Of course, after that, nothing came of it.”

  “Of course,” Daphne repeated, staring at the gleaming top of the desk. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Hutton. You’ve been most helpful, and I would appreciate it if you see that none of these, er, stories come to Sir Adrian or my sister’s ears. Sir Adrian would think it a May-game but April is quite susceptible to just those sorts of tales and I know she would be uneasy.” She smiled. “And Sir Adrian would take much delight in teasing her about ghosts and goblins and noises in the night.”

  “I certainly understand,” Mrs. Hutton replied with an answering smile. “If that will be all?”

  Daphne dismissed her and after Mrs. Hutton had left, sat there and stared at the top of the desk as if the answers she wanted were written there. At least she now knew that Beaumont Place had a history of ghostly occurrences, she thought wryly, and remembering the scorn in Mrs. Hutton’s voice when she’d mentioned the nervous young lady from London, she vowed to keep her mouth shut about anything she might have seen.

  She glanced out the window, aware that time was fleeing. It was several hours yet before bedtime…several hours yet before she had to face another night in that room, and she shivered at the notion of waking to another visitation. She could ask for another room…. She grimaced. What reason would she give? It was a perfectly fine room…when she had it to herself and wasn’t sharing it with a ghost…or something. Her jaw set. Besides, she thought, I don’t like the idea of being scared away from my very own bedroom.

  But she did have some time at her disposal, and so she rang for Goodson and had him show her to the library where the collection of Beaumont memorabilia assembled by Sir Huxley’s mother was kept.

  The library was an imposing room. Axminster carpets in subdued tones of rose and blue and cream lay upon the gleaming floors, and floor-to-
ceiling oak bookcases flanked tall windows with dove gray draperies. The spines of the leather books—blue, green, gold, and red—created a pleasing tapestry wherever the eye fell, and a huge gray-veined marble fireplace dominated one end of the room. Satinwood tables of various sizes and heights had been placed here and there, and chairs and sofas covered in burgundy and sapphire blue velvet were scattered about the room.

  Despite its grandeur and size, Daphne felt immediately at home, and she could envision spending many a winter afternoon curled up by the fire reading. The size of the collection dismayed her, however, and staring at shelf upon shelf crammed with the memorabilia of the Beaumont family, lovingly gathered by Sir Huxley’s mother, she sighed. It would take her years to go through it.

  She glared at the collection for several seconds, and then her shoulders straightened. She might as well get started.

  When she joined her siblings for dinner that night, her head was aching, and her eyes burned. Deciphering the intricate script of some of the Beaumonts was a challenge in itself, much less making any sense of what they wrote. After the hours she’d just spent toiling through insipid recitals of parties attended, gowns worn, and the latest on dit about people long dead, facing a ghostly presence seemed a welcome respite.

  Daphne didn’t feel quite so sanguine when she finally closed her bedroom door behind her that night. She lit all the candles in the room and after slipping into her nightgown and putting on her robe, sat by the fire with every intention of remaining on watch the entire night. Despite her resolve, her body betrayed her, and by the time the clock struck midnight, she was asleep in the chair.

  She woke just before daylight and after sending a blurry-eyed glance around the room and seeing the guttering candles, decided that no ghosts were coming to call. Throwing her robe on the bed, she crawled beneath the covers and promptly fell asleep.

  By the end of the week, there had been no further disturbances, and Daphne decided that perhaps, she had imagined the entire incident. Of course, there were those stories…stories that Mrs. Hutton and Goodson dismissed out of hand, and if they didn’t give them any heed, then she wouldn’t either—for now.

  Because she hadn’t known where to start in going through the Beaumont papers, she had begun her reading where Sir Huxley’s mother had left off some twenty years previously and had been working her way backward. The task hadn’t been the ordeal she had assumed it would be and had actually proved enjoyable some of the time, giving her a better insight into the family of which she was a member. But when there were no further disturbances, she wondered at the wisdom of burying herself in the library for hours on end. She had gotten as far as Sir Huxley’s grandfather’s lifetime and was eager to reach the era when the family had split apart, but there were still some fine days to be enjoyed out of doors, and with no more ghostly visits, she put off further examination. Promising herself that she would return to the letters once winter had fully set in, she set them back on the library shelf.

  Daphne and her siblings settled in easily at Beaumont Place. They quickly adapted to their new life and rarely gave a thought to their former life in London. As the weeks passed, with the exception of Lord Trevillyan, they met the local gentry, several of their neighbors, and all of their various tenants. There was much coming and going between Beaumont Place and Vicar Henley’s house, Adrian having struck up a friendship with the two older Henley sons, who were both about his age—Quentin at eighteen, a few months older than Adrian, and Maximillan, just a year younger. April had become fast friends with fifteen-year-old Rebecca Henley, the eldest daughter in the large and sprawling family, and Daphne enjoyed visiting with Mrs. Henley—in her opinion, a most sensible woman. If Mrs. Henley was a sensible woman, Daphne found Vicar Henley, a big, boisterous man, utterly delightful. He had welcomed them warmly into his home and the neighborhood. Sometimes, Daphne felt a trifle guilty at the generosity Vicar Henley had shown since her initial desire to make herself known to the vicar had been to pick his mind about Beaumont Place and any eerie tales he might have heard. She had not expected that a warm relationship would develop between the two families and that she would count the vicar and his wife among her closest friends. When she had hesitantly approached him, the vicar had been eager to relate a few hair-raising stories about Beaumont Place that dated back to the bloody time of the Cromwell’s Roundheads and Charles the First. The tales proved to be very exciting and thrilling, but there was nothing in them that Daphne felt shed any light on what she had experienced, although she did perk up when the vicar mentioned legends of hidden staircases and concealed panels…. But since the ghost, or whatever, remained silent, she was perfectly happy to push it aside and simply enjoy her new friends and life.

  The holidays were a giddy time for the three Beaumonts. For the first time in memory, money was no object, and they spent freely, even a little foolishly, on each other. They entertained their tenants and their families lavishly, as well as their new friends, and threw themselves happily into an orgy of parties and balls and soirees that were held at the various homes in the neighborhood. There were additions to the staff: Adrian’s valet was hired, and a pair of lady’s maids for Daphne and April.

  But best of all had been the arrival of their beloved Ketty on a blustery December night near the end of the year. The moment she had received Daphne’s letter, Ketty explained, she had given her notice and made plans to travel to Cornwall. Seeing her small, sturdy frame standing bemused in their elegant entryway brought a lump to Daphne’s throat. Still wearing her old brown coat, her ginger-colored hair escaping from beneath the worn felt hat upon her head, and holding her threadbare tan gloves, Miss Ketty stared around her in astonishment.

  Miss Ketty’s pale blue eyes filled with tears. “The Lord answered my prayers,” she said. “I prayed and prayed for my three little birds to be safe and with me again. And look at this wonderful place.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I am on my head or my heels!” She glanced at Adrian. “And look at you, Sir Adrian, all dressed up like a young lord. Why I could pass you on the street and never recognize my dear little boy. Never in my dreams did I expect such a thing.”

  “It’s no dream, Ketty,” exclaimed Adrian with a laugh, and scooping her up, he danced with her in his arms around the entryway. “It’s a dashed miracle.”

  “Now put me down, Sir Adrian. This is no way for a proper young man to act,” she scolded, flustered. “Wherever did you learn such manners—certainly not from me!”

  Adrian only grinned, but he did set her down. Her feet on the floor again, Miss Ketty looked over at Daphne and April. Her eyes filled with tears again, and she groped for her handkerchief. Her nose buried in it, she cried, “Oh, never did I expect to see my sweet doves again. I worried so about the pair of you, alone in the world, and I was fearful what the future would hold for you.”

  April ran to her and hugged her. “Dear Ketty, we are so glad that you are here. I have missed you so.”

  “And I you.” Ketty gave a great gusty sigh. “The Lord is good.”

  “Indeed, He is,” Daphne said as she walked up to Ketty and kissed her cheek. Smiling into her worn face, she added, “He brought our own dear, dear Miss Ketty back to us.”

  Miss Kettle’s arrival made their transition complete, and by the time late January rolled around, with Miss Ketty firmly settled in the household, scolding and fussing over them, they were comfortable in their new life. Staring out the window of the library one sunny January morning, it seemed to Daphne as if they had always lived at Beaumont Place. The past seemed like a dream, she thought as she sipped a cup of freshly poured tea. No more worries. No more cares.

  The day was so fine, in fact, that Daphne gave into Adrian’s pleas for a picnic on the beach. In addition to the farms found in the long coombes and valleys that descended from the upper moorland, his estate ran down to the wave-tossed English Channel. The cliff sides leading down to the shore were pocketed with caves and indentations, and they’d already hear
d stories of smugglers and the like. The beaches were narrow, curving like snakes around the base of the cliffs, their lengths broken here and there by huge rocks and boulders that tumbled into the frothy, turbulent water. It was a wild, dangerous place, yet it held an irresistible appeal.

  There was a thin, winding path, more like a goat path, Adrian complained, that led to the beach, but the climb down was worth it. Wearing their oldest clothes, their backs against the rocky cliff, they’d spread a blanket on the ground and enjoyed the feast that Cook had packed for them. As they ate, they’d stared mesmerized by the writhing seas, the bright sunshine making the water gleam and glitter as the waves broke on the shore. Later, they ambled along the rocky beach, exploring and chattering as they went.

  They lost all sense of time as their explorations took them farther and farther along the beach. Coming to a long arm of rocks that stretched out into the water, they clambered over it. Reaching the other side, breathless and laughing, they stopped in surprise at the sight of two men, strangers, standing near the base of the cliffs.

  From their clothing, it was obvious that the men were not fishermen or common laborers, and from their expressions, it was equally obvious that they were not pleased to see them. With all the innocence of a friendly puppy, Adrian smiled and walked up to the pair. “Hullo,” he said. “I am Sir Adrian Beaumont. May I help you? Are you lost?”

  The shorter of the two men raked Adrian with a glance. “No,” he said curtly. “But you obviously are. I regret to inform you”—and there was a sneer in his voice that made Daphne’s hackles rise—“that you are trespassing on my land.”