The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “Aye,” said Ellie, “I know it and so does his high and mighty lordship, James Ashburne. Mark my words, my lady, he’s put a roof over our heads and that’s all he’ll do.”

  “Leaving me to manage the upkeep of it.”

  “And a dirty trick it is too, saving him the cost of this place at your expense.”

  “It’s not entirely unexpected.” Portia smiled at her lion of a maid. “There’s no good flying into a pelter over it. At least we do have a roof.”

  “Such as it is. Mice and damp and rot,” Ellie muttered as she returned to the dressing room to rummage about in Portia’s trunks for her nightclothes.

  Portia didn’t have the heart to tell her about the ghost.

  *****

  They slept that night in the same bed, bundled together for warmth under the counterpane. One got used to the musty smell after a while and the sound of the rain outside was strangely soothing.

  The dripping somewhere closer was not so comforting, nor could the incessant scurrying in the walls be taken for one of Nature’s lullabies. Portia lay awake for a long time, wishing her companion’s prodigious snoring would drown out the scramble of mice. “First thing tomorrow,” she said to the blissfully slumbering Ellie, “we’ll find ourselves a cat.”

  Her stomach rumbled and Portia wrapped her arms around herself to quiet it. The cold collation Mrs. McFerran had produced left as much to be desired as the fire that smoked and sputtered in the grate. The bread was brown and quite stale, the meat tough, and the cheese moldy. Portia had cut the green parts off the cheese, eaten as much of the meat as she could before her jaw began to ache, and foregone the bread entirely. It was a small enough meal to begin with, made smaller by removal of the inedible parts, and miniscule when shared. However, it was clear Ellie would get no better than the lady of the house, assuming she could command any food whatever. Portia wouldn’t think of allowing her maid to go hungry, despite Ellie’s protestation, with accompanying pat to her ample midsection, that she could more easily withstand the hardship.

  Portia found herself smiling. Mrs. McFerran had certainly made her displeasure known. The woman was going to be a formidable adversary.

  Much to her surprise, Portia actually managed to sleep, snuggled down in her flannel dressing gown—as soft as it was old and worn to bed for the warmth—with the counterpane drawn up around her ears. She woke, chilled and disoriented, in the darkest part of the night, her heart pounding the breath out of her before she even knew why she was awake.

  “My lady?” Ellie said from very close, her voice high-pitched and tremulous.

  “What is it?” Portia whispered.

  The noise came from somewhere in the Hall. A scraping sound, as of something heavy being dragged. A thump. A series of bangs with no perceptible pattern, sounding first close, then far, then seeming to come from within the very bedchamber. A sudden crash of thunder startled a scream out of Ellie. For a moment, all was silent. Then the dragging noise began again.

  “The McFerrans,” Portia said. “It must be.”

  “And what would they be doing, so late at night? It’s the ghost, I’ll be bound.”

  “Where did you hear tell of a ghost?”

  “John Coachman told me while he was gettin’ in your trunks, and he had it from a man at the Duck and Drake who’s lived in these parts all his life. Oh, my lady, we shouldn’t have come. The Hall’s a terrible place, it is. A terrible place.”

  Portia tried unsuccessfully to pry Ellie’s hands off her arm. “Ellie Brown, I never took you for such a widgeon. It’s the McFerrans, or a shutter come loose in the wind. Now release me.”

  The maid did as she was told for a moment, but grabbed hold all the tighter when Portia threw back the counterpane. “My lady! Where are you going?”

  “To see what’s causing that infernal racket.” Portia freed herself with some difficulty and slid out of bed. She walked barefoot across the cold floor, morbidly afraid of stepping on something furry. Their tiny fire flickered occasionally, otherwise incapable of providing either warmth or light, and Portia was grateful for the sparse furnishings as she picked her way blindly across the floor. She could hear Ellie’s rapid breathing from the bed, and found she had to hold her breath to prevent herself matching it. When her hand brushed the door she started back involuntarily.

  Irritated at herself, Portia found the handle again, turned it silently, and eased the door open, the hinges protesting with a high whine. The noise outside ceased, and Portia stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, until the dragging noise started up again, sounding at a distance now.

  Portia took a firmer grip on the knob and peered cautiously around the door. The corridor was not nearly so dark as the bedchamber. A pale, thin light came from somewhere, turning India ink blackness into something a shade lighter but nearly as impenetrable. Portia could make out only the dimmest of shapes, amorphous and threatening. Keeping her feet safely in the bedchamber, her hand on the door, she dared to lean out and look down the corridor.

  The pale light was faintly brighter in that direction, a diffuse glow that wavered like the reflection of water. The noise changed from dragging to a tapping that began and increased and echoed, rushing toward where she stood frozen in the doorway like the thunder of running feet. Something passed across the light, an enormous figure, misshapen and awful.

  Portia pulled her head back and shoved the door shut. She turned the key in the lock with shaking fingers and ran shivering back to bed. Barely had she done so than something, a dragging, thumping, scraping something passed the door.

  “A terrible place,” Ellie whispered again, wrapping her arms tightly about her mistress. Portia pulled the counterpane up to her chin and lay staring at the door she could no longer see through the gloom, praying that nothing would try the handle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Something ran across her feet and Portia awoke with a scream.

  She bolted upright and threw back the counterpane, sending the mouse flying. It hit the floor and vanished in a gray flash. Portia scrambled out of bed and bundled her dressing gown about her, her skin crawling. She wasn’t inclined to be missish, but she dared even her brother not to feel out of sorts at being woken in such a manner. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, wrinkled her nose at the odor of mold, and pushed aside the curtains to look out on the day.

  The sky was a dismal gray that infected everything in sight, and it was still raining through a fog that slunk along the ground, muffling things near in drifting white ribbons and blotting out things farther away entirely. Portia sighed and turned to survey the room. It was no less dismal inside than out, and nearly as cold. In a proper house, a servant would have been in by now to make up the fire. Clearly the McFerrans couldn’t be counted upon for such things. Portia wrapped her arms about herself with a shiver and went into the tiny dressing room.

  “And what would you be about, my lady?” Ellie asked from the doorway some ten minutes later, startling Portia far more than she ought.

  “Finding something to wear.”

  “And making a mess of my packing while you’re at it, I’ll be bound.” Ellie took the warm stuff gown from Portia and shooed her out of the dressing room. A plate and steaming cup sat on the tiny dressing table, the odor of tea and toast floating out over the harsh smell of cold ashes and decades-old miasma of neglect. “You sit there and break your fast—though how you can keep body and soul together on so little is beyond me—and leave the clothing to me.”

  Portia seated herself at the dressing table, tucking her dressing gown as closely about her as she could, picked up the cup, and sipped her blissfully hot tea before starting on the toast. “Thank you, Ellie,” she said when the maid emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later. “You’re a wonder.”

  “What’s a wonder is that that woman ever had the running of the Hall when there were a lord in it.” Ellie frowned about the room and finally laid Portia’s gown and underthings on the bed with visible r
eluctance. “Stared at me like I’d a second head when I asked for tea and toast to break your fast. Took her so long, you’d have thought she had to bake the bread right then and run to India for the tea. Then she burnt the toast and looked daggers at me when I told her it wouldn’t do.”

  Portia laughed. “It’s probably the hour that’s put her off. Early even for country folk.” A habit she learned her first year at Rosewood, when there were never enough hours in the day to do what was needful to make the house comfortable. It would no doubt stand her in good stead now.

  And wasn’t that a facer, as her brother would have it? Years making Rosewood Close a comfortable home, and now the new Lady Ashburne would have the comfort of it, while the old Lady Ashburne got packed off to start again somewhere else. It was enough to.... No, Portia told herself, firming up her chin, crying never solved anything. At least here she was free of James and his wife. Free of their poorly concealed irritation that Roger’s death should have brought them, in addition to the title and lands, a legion of debts and a widow to support. Free of the unfriendly curiosity that peered out from behind their looks. One could almost hear them asking themselves, what possessed Roger to marry the chit in the first place? Must be something wrong with her to drive him to London and the arms of every bird of paradise that caught his fancy.

  “There’s no call for her to act all high and mighty about it.”

  Portia shook off her black thoughts. There was no point dwelling on her situation. She was stuck here, with no relatives to depend on but her husband’s family and her brother. James had already proven how little he cared to do for her by dropping her in this bumblebroth in the first place. And her brother was still at University. She knew Tony would do anything he could to help if he knew of her straits, but he didn’t have any more money than she did. She must simply make the best of it. “Give it time, Ellie. After ten years, the McFerrans have no doubt grown rusty. Even the best gate squeaks if it hasn’t been used for a while.”

  Ellie considered this as she helped Portia into her chemise and petticoats. “You’re suggesting that I try a little oil.”

  “Something like that.”

  Ellie snorted. “I’d have to tip the butter boat for certain to get that dragon on my side.”

  “That’s as may be.” Portia smoothed down her skirts. The gown was neither elegant nor fashionable, but it was sturdy, warm, and comfortable, and a perfect dress for staying home in, as it had not escaped the dye pot when she went into mourning, nor taken the dye evenly. There were doubtless some situations in which it would be useful to look as if she were molting, but Portia couldn’t bring any to mind. “We are no more likely to rid ourselves of her than she of us, so we’ll have to learn to scrape along together.”

  “Yes, but does she know that?”

  Portia let herself be steered to the dressing table, and waited until Ellie fell into a familiar rhythm with the brush before saying, “We must at least try. There’s a tremendous amount of work to be done.” Rosewood, when she had first come to it, had suffered Roger’s neglect, but not yet forgotten what it was to be a gentleman’s manor house. The Hall, from what little Portia’d seen of it, was another matter entirely.

  “His lordship ought to be ashamed of himself, packing his brother’s widow off to a crumbling, ghost-ridden—”

  “Don’t be a ninnyhammer,” Portia told her as sternly as she could while still remembering the fear that had overtaken her the previous night.

  “I was that scared when the ghost dragged itself past our door.” Ellie’s brushing became ferocious before she recollected herself and lightened up, running one hand down Portia’s long brown hair in wordless apology.

  “It was only the McFerrans. I’m certain of it.” By the light of day, the horrible shade she’d glimpsed seemed a thing of air and darkness, the product of something no more terrifying than a man walking in front of a candle. “However, if you would prefer to seek better employment....”

  “Are you turning me off?” Ellie twisted Portia’s hair up, securing it in place with a few expertly placed pins.

  “Just offering you something better than a roof over your head. I may be stuck here, but you don’t have to be.”

  “If you’re staying, so am I.”

  “Well then,” Portia said, hiding her relief in a show of brisk efficiency, “we shall take on the Hall together, and the mice and dragons and ghosts had better watch out. Now. Did you break your fast? I thought not. Go down and eat. I’m afraid you’ll have to shift for yourself, but better that than take Mrs. McFerran’s cast-offs. Send her up to me. Our first task is to move rooms.”

  She did not wait for the housekeeper in her grudgingly bestowed bedchamber, but started down the hall, opening doors as she went. The drapes were all drawn and the dismal light swimming through the thunderclouds left a great deal to the imagination, though it was clear the chamber she’d slept in was far from the worst of the lot.

  She had reached the landing and stood looking at the portrait of Giles Ashburne when Mrs. McFerran joined her, puffing audibly up the stairs until she caught sight of Portia, at which she slowed her pace. Portia did not turn from her contemplation of the painting. The man was, without doubt, glowering.

  “He didn’t like Lord Ashburne much, did he?”

  “My lady?”

  Portia turned. “The painter.”

  Mrs. McFerran’s eyes flicked to the painting and away, her expression passing so quickly it was near impossible to read. Was that distaste? “I believe the portrait was considered handsomely done at the time.”

  “Why did you not take it down?”

  “As my lady knows, we were attempting to do so when—”

  “Before I came.” Portia remained before the painting when Mrs. McFerran would have shepherded her downstairs. “You might have taken it down anytime. Why leave it there if you dislike it so?”

  “Some might have objected.” Mrs. McFerran hovered two steps down, as if she could draw Portia with her by will alone. Portia continued to study the portrait.

  Who, she wondered, would have objected to its removal? The master of the house had himself ordered it taken down, if the McFerrans were to be believed. But why? Portia couldn’t believe James would have bothered. That left only Roger, though why he should have cared what paintings hung in a manor he never intended to visit was beyond her. With an effort, she drew herself away from the mystery and turned to the housekeeper.

  “I wish to inspect the Hall, Mrs. McFerran. We will start with the servants’ quarters.” Mrs. McFerran drew breath as if to argue, then started abruptly up the stairs.

  They began at the top of the Hall and worked their way down, through servants’ quarters, all except the McFerrans’ draped in cobwebs, dust, and rodent droppings; the nursery and schoolrooms, where a window had broken some time ago, letting in the damp to turn many of the books green while the rest simply moldered away; and down again to the first floor and the family apartments. Mrs. McFerran lingered overlong in some rooms and tried to rush Portia through others, withal showing her displeasure in every action.

  The rooms in the family wing were in slightly better condition, though no less dusty. A flurry of skittering attended the opening of many a door, though there were never any mice in sight when they went in. Portia looked everything over carefully; the eerie light she’d seen the previous night had come from either this wing or down in the hall itself. The explanation for her ghost lay somewhere around here.

  They made their way to the end of the hall and back, stopping last at the two chambers that lay close upon the landing. The size, the richness of the appointments, and the dressing closet they shared proclaimed them the master’s and mistress’s private chambers.

  The predominant color in the mistress’s chamber was a watery blue, a dispirited shade not improved by the wavering light from outside, but the furniture was a golden oak that made the room feel brighter than it might. The carpet was moth-eaten and there were mice in the bed—
there were doubtless mice in every unoccupied bed in the house. It was not her light and airy bedchamber from Rosewood Close, but Portia could picture herself there.

  Besides, it appeared to be the soundest bedchamber in the house.

  “This will do,” she said, more to herself than the housekeeper. Then, to that woman, who was staring at her oddly, “You will please have Mr. McFerran shift my trunks.”

  “You can’t,” Mrs. McFerran protested, as shocked as if Portia proposed staying there with the master next door. She quickly collected herself. “This was Lady Ashburne’s chamber.”

  “And it will be again.” Portia reflected that there were a few too many Lady Ashburnes about. And definitely too many Lord Ashburnes.

  “I meant Mr. Giles’ beloved mother,” Mrs. McFerran said repressively, adding “my lady” as an afterthought.

  “You’re not going to tell me this room’s haunted too?”

  She was hardly bowled over to hear Mrs. McFerran mutter darkly that she wouldn’t be surprised. “Nevertheless,” Portia said, “I will take this room.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, but walked through the large shared dressing closet, which still contained a surprising amount of men’s clothing, its half-tenanted state giving it an air of abandonment greater than that of the rest of the house, and into the master’s bedroom. This was undoubtedly a man’s room, done up in colors that looked black under their covering of dust, but were probably deep hues of blue and green and red. The furniture was large and solid, of a dark wood that shone even through the dust. The rug, like the others, was gritty and threadbare, the drapes little better. In stark contrast to the rest of the rooms she’d seen, the dust here had been disturbed. There was a confusing array of footprints where a rudimentary cleaning had obviously been attempted.